msfsm 



THE WILDERNESS 

AN 

AMERICAN 

PLAY 





■Ml 




Class fo '5^ L ^ 
Book_l4li£^ 

C»opightN°- y/ ^ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



NOTE ON 

TYPOGRAPHY, PAPER, AND COMMON 
HONESTY 

In two particulars, typography and paper, this 
book is honest. 

It would have been easy to spread out the printed 
matter so that the number of pages would have 
been increased by at least a quarter. The use of 
paper such as that upon which this note is printed, 
would have doubled the thickness of the book, witli- 
out adding appreciably to the manufacturing cost. 
These two ancient fakes would have made it easier 
for the simple purchaser to give up his good money : 
he would have been getting a larger book. But it 
may be questioned whether they would have added 
to any intrinsic value that may be discoverable in 
the text. 

The brown paper in this book represents, not an 
attempt to be "artistic", but an attempt to be honest. 
Practically all books, except the most expensive, are 
now printed on wood-pulp paper, which is neither 
strong nor durable. Most of the books published 
nowadays will disintegrate and disappear in dust be- 
fore the world is much older. While this is a merci- 
ful dispensation for posterity, it is annoying to a 
few cranks who, being out of sympathy with our 
social and our industrial order, prefer to pay their 
money for real things rather than for cunning imi- 
tations of real things. 

The punk upon which this note is printed is an 
example of the cheap book-paper, simulating ele- 
gance, now commonly used. Brown wrapping paper 
is the only cheap, fibrous, strong, and durable paper 
to be found in New York City. The price of it by 
the pound is the same as the price of this white 
paper. The purchaser of this book will acquire at 
least a few cents' worth of real paper, however 
frothy and unreal he may find the rest of the con- 
tents. The writers will not resent the suggestion, 
which will occur to the judicious reader, that the 
more perishable vehicle would have been more ap- 
propriate. 



/ 



THE WILDERNESS 

AN AMERICAN PLAT 



ADAPTED 
BY 

FLOYD JENKINS 

AND 

RICHARD PUTNAM DARROW 

Compilers (with Donald McGraw) of 
"Dolls and Toy Balloons** 



BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 
NEW YORK BALTIMORE ATLANTA 

1912 



'II 



Copyright, 1912, 

By 

Broadway Publishing Co. 

ENTERED AT STATIQNEr's HALL, LONDON. 

All rights reserved. 



SCI.A305712 



INTRODUCTION 

CONTAINING OBSERVATIONS ABOUT 
VULGARITY — PLAY-MAKING — CHAIRS— FASH^ 
ION— HUMAN NATURE— AUTOMOBILES— PLAY- 
MONGERING— COMIC RELIEF— GEORGE BER- 
NARD SHAW — ROSES — CARRION — PEOPLE — 
MUD— ART— LIFE— NEAR-IBSENS— HUMAN BE- 
INGS — SLAP-STICKS — HUMAN UNNATURE — 
DEATH — GOOD FORM — ACTORS — MANNERS 
—PLAY-ACTING— FOLKS— CLOTHES— HEROES — 
DONKEYS 

AND MANY OTHER PERSONS AND THINGS 
CONSTITUTING AN 

EPITOME OF THE PHILOSOPHY 

OF THE DRAMA . 

AND A 

COMPLETE GUIDE TO, THE TECHNIQUE OF 

PLAY-WRIGHTING 



111 



NOTE TO INTRODUCTION 

Tzvo or three representatives of our great Theatrical 
Syndicate have taken exception somezvhat violently to 
the tone of the introduction. They seem to find it nn- 
sympathetic. Fortunately for the writers, zuho are of 
mild disposition and sedentary habit, the police have 
an eye on these gentlemen. It zvill be practically im- 
possible, therefore, for them to resort to any other 
lethal zveapon than the pen. They may be expected to 
use that zveapon zvith deadly effect. Who 's first f 

The editors of Punch, or the Loudon Charivari, zvere 
to have prepared explanatory diagrams for the use of 
devotees of that comic, but alzvays refined, sheet zvho 
might be betrayed into reading the introduction. But 
upon reading it, titey threzv up their hands, and the 

job, and They said it left them all at sea, and 

made them quite sick. Only zvhen deeply moved, 
zvould an editor of Punch use language as coarse and 
fibrous as that. 



IV 



INTRODUCTION 

No one shall read this introduction, and warning 
then complain that his sufferings were caused 
by wilful misrepresentation involved in the 
use of the above title. No one has to readmit 
who has not been condemned to do so by a 
police magistrate. Most of it was written as 
a discourse on the modern drama, to be de- 
livered before the inmates of a seminary of 
polite learning for young ladies. But, some- 
how, the Tady principal was never able to 
set a date for the lecture. But she paid up, 
after looking over the manuscript, and said 
that she did so thankfully. 

These are facts : ?ng^ facts ' 

1. This introduction has practically noth- 
ing to do with the play — or with anything 
else. 

2. Probably it is the most slovenly and un- 
literary, if not illiterate, writing 6ver set up 
by or for a respectable publishing house. The 
stark American language stalks through these 
pages in its shirt-sleeves. 

3. If it has any point at all, the point will 
be taken only by loose-living newspaper men. 



vi The Wilderness 

disappointed writers of plays, writers of dis- 
appointing plays, prize-fighters w^ho will never 
come back, and actors whose genius has not 
been recognized. There are a great many of 
all these classes. 

4. It will shock some people. 

5. It will please none. 

'6. It is too coarse for the refined, too re- 
fined for the vulgar; too flippant for the seri- 
ous, too serious for the flippant; too plain 
for the virtuous, too goody-goody for the 
vicious; too hard for the soft, too sentimental 
for the hard ; too dull for the clever, too clever 
for the dull; too mature for infants, too un- 
formed for the mature; too obscure for the 
simple, too obvious for the sophisticated; too 
much something for everybody, not enough 
anything for anybody; and altogether impos- 
sible for the few who wish to conform, suc- 
ceed, and become (because none of us is 
either respectable or fashionable by nature or 
in infancy) respectable or fashionable. 

7. It is not for the young. 

8. It is too profane for your pastor. And 
perhaps 

9. It is not profane enough for you. 

10. No one will agree with it, and it will 
disagree with many. 



Introduction vii 



11. The aged and the prematurely old will 
find it foolish. It is too wise for the imma- 
ture and the prematurely young. 

12. The reader must furnish the ideas: the 
writers contribute only the words. 

13. It is printed here, only for the purpose a 

r , • •, 111- ■ u ■ COMMON 

of makmg it possible, by increasing its size, fake 
to sell the book for more than it is w^orth. 

14. If you have any finer feelings, they 
will be outraged. 

15. Some people will call it desultory. 
Now if you read it, the result be upon your 

own head. 

It is impossible to say where we shall be- adrift 
gin, whither we shall drift, or where we shall 
fetch up. We are at sea without compass or 
rudder. Syntax and Style have walked the 
plank, and the black flag of the- vernacular 
floats at the peak. 

Vulgarity and coarseness, now\ This play vulgarity 
has a lot of one or the other. It depends on coarseness 
the point of view. Some people can't distin- 
guish between them. It is n't of the least im- 
portance that these people should. And some, 
in their laudable efforts to side-step the one, 
run their heads bung into the other. Unfor- 
tunately, this seldom puts them out for 
good, 



Vlll 



The Wilderness 



HENRY 
JAMES 



THE COOING 
DOVE 



ONE GEM 



Henry James is a right good fellow; but 
he works too hard, and he makes other folks 
work too hard. The unintellectual say that 
the sublime self-unconsciousness of his limpid 
[Perhaps it is lymphed: ask your doctor.] 
style is forced. Anyway, when you have read 
one of his literary orchids four or five times, 
your agony is but begun. It is pleasant to be 
assured that he has found so ready a market 
for his crimes that he will be buried decently 
when his time comes. It is to be hoped that 
he will not have to atone for all the suffering 
he has caused to many innocent people who 
think that the beauty and strength of the in- 
ner meaning must be in direct proportion to 
the difficulty of finding the meaning. But 
the truly cultured know that this is art. 

Did you ever read his Cooing Dove in the 
Pla<:e Where the China Washhand Basin Did 
Not Perhaps? Wonderful! Well, in the 
long-drawn rhetorical agony of this mystic 
bit, there is one gem — the simple phrase, "the 
saving grace of coarseness." It means much 
to some of us. It is the only thing that some 
of us can remember after a lifetime devoted 
to the study of the works of the master, the 
subtle influence of whose knurly style may 
be detected in every line of this. 



Introduction ix 



Mr. James is scarcely a typical American 
man of letters, although it is believed that his 
parents infringed his English copyright by 
producing him in this country. But there 's 
Richard Harding Davis, — Dick, as he used 
to be known [It is to be wished that you ^'^^j^,^?. 
newspaper boys [You all know the magic and da vis 
softening influence of that word.] would re- 
member that the correct form is "as he used 
to be known as," which is impossible.] among 
smart young men who were not content to 
remain in the obscurity for which Nature and 
their parents had designed them. He is, or 
was, American all right, — and a downright 
good fellow. Is he written out? or has he 
made a noise like a balloon floating away 
through the empyrean? or what? He 's the 
lad to write the American play, which will 
not be found in the collected writings of Mr. 
Belasco, or of Mr. , for all their knowl- 
edge of the conventions of society and of the 
stage. They ought to collaborate : it would 
be a corker, — a crackajack. There you are. ^ crack- 

AJACK 

That 's your illustration: "crackerjack" (the 
modern newspaper form) is vulgar; cracka- 
jack is good old slang, it is coarse, but 

Mr. Davis used to be pretty handy with his 
fists. Let us therefore pass lightly oyer his 



The Wilderness 



A CROWDED 
CANVAS 



MR. DOOLEY 
AND 
GEORGE ADE 



many failings as an author, and leave him to 
the mercies of his own conscience. What it 
will do to him will be plenty. 

He and all the other amiable gentlemen 
with whose figures our canvas is becoming 
somewhat crowded must understand that no 
one is responsible for this. The cat has mixed 
it up with the sticky fly-paper, and anyone 
in the house is liable to get scratched. All 
these people must remember, not only that they 
are public property, but also that they are be- 
fore us now only as^ intellectual entities, like 
strenuosity or race suicide, and that, there- 
fore, as mere persons, they can't resent the 
kindly examination from which even the 
reader and the highest in the land are not 
exempt. But let us be careful : within the 
memory of men now living there were, and 
there may be again, clubs, — Liars' Clubs, Big 
Sticks, etc. 

There are two other literary parties who 
have not been altogether forgotten, — Mr. 
Dooley and George Ade. They shared a se- 
cret hidden from duller people, and they 
made money out of it. This secret, which 
they probably discovered by searching their 
ow^n black hearts, is that w^e all enjoy ridicule 
of those weaknesses of human nature which 



Introduction xi 



we understand because Instinct puts her finger 
on them in our own breasts, — although we 
think it is only because we are such keen 
observers. The speculative philosopher won- 
ders how funny they would be without their 
respective dialects, — their slap-sticks. Are 
they knock-about artists, or comedians, or tra- 
gedians, or only walking gentlemen? How 
inspiringly suggestive is the terminology of Jl^i^'p^^i^E 
the stage, — walking gentlemen, low^ come- stage 
dians, leading ladies [In some cases this 
means leading exemplary lives.], comic re- 
lief! The man looking through this atmos- 
phere sees life, — its beauty, its meaning, its 
chiaroscuro. Here 's a dare for them. Let 
them publish editions of their famous works 
in the English language. This dare is for H. 
James, too. Then we '11 find out. 

But there is an artist who writes in Eng- ||g5^RD 
lish, George Bernard Shaw. How about him? shaw 
We shall have to pass him up, — at this time. 
The rapier of this irresponsible Irishman's wit 
is too ready for us raw Americans, whose 
only edged weapon is the scalping knife. 
Still, we may pause, tp recognize our debt 
to him. He has had a perfectly corking time 
in getting all the matinee girls and other in- 
tellectual leaders over here all mixed up, until 



Xll 



The Wilderness 



BLACK-BEAN 
SOUP AND 
COCKTAILS 



SUPERMAN 



they do n't know their moral and intellectual 
head from their ditto heels. Reverence and 
irreverence, brutality and finesse, good, bad, 
and indifferent, black-bean soup and cock- 
tails, — all these and all other things he has so 
jumbled together in their poor brains that 
they do n't know whether their hats are on 
straight. But we have men like Mr. Shaw in 
this country. When your Indian gtiide says, 
''Mebbeso termor rer we work erlong the Sun- 
set Trail over erlong the big barren," you 
do n't know whether he is thinking that he 
wants a caribou steak, or that he would like 
to see you mired up to your waist in a bit of 
humorous ground to which he means to lure 
you, or that you would look well with your 
throat cut, so that he would n't have to divide 
your whiskey with you. Some people ought 
to be able to get lots of fun out of their repu- 
tation for inscrutability. Then Mr. Shaw in- 
vented a household pet which answers to the 
name of Superman. In the play the title role 
is taken by the leading man : Mr. Shaw loves 
a paradox. This cute little elemental has 
caused pleasant shivers of things that she 
w^ould not like to talk about with her pastor 
to run down the spine of many-a respectable 
New York woman who oueht to have been 



Introduction xiii 



buying socks for the little ones at Macy's 
bargain counter. Sometimes the path of duty 
runs right under our own clothesline; and 
even the primrose path may run through our 
back yard, if we have planted the primroses 
there, and if the children have been careful 
about watering them. Some day this man 
will get w^hat's coming to him. 

Every modern play that will live as a work near-ibsens 

-^ ^ , -^ . AND LOUD 

of art makes a noise like putrefaction. But odors 
many gentle souls are in error in believing 
that because a play makes a noise like putre- 
faction, it will live as a work of art.- Even 
dramatists should try to be logical now and 
then. The inspiring fragrance of the charnel- 
house, which now ravishes our nostrils, ema- 
nates from the works of the near-disciples of 
the master Ibsen. The only way to attain 
moral sublimity and true art is to devote our- 
selves to the study of pathology. Health 
comes only through contemplation of disease. 
The fouler and more revolting the disease, 
the more abounding the health attained. 
Study of paranoia and neurasthenia arouses the 

ARTISTIC 

the finest powers of the artistic soul, however soul and 

^ PARANOIA 

unspeakable the prosaic physician may know^ 
the ultimate cause of these little weaknesses 
to be. Only decaying wood is phosphores- 



XIV 



The Wilderness 



PORK CHOPS 



OLYMPIAN 
HEIGHTS 



cent. This is the whole of art, and nervous 
indigestion is the only inspiration. But fox- 
wood glows only in the dark: in broad day- 
light it seems to be only rotten wood, — often, 
to be sure, colored very delicately. If the 
home of art is not in the hospital, it is surely 
in the morgue. Edible pork chops are unin- 
teresting, unpicturesque, — they are dead. But 
in the carcass of the victim of hog cholera rot- 
ting in the manure heap, we can study life. 
It is full of life: it breeds maggots by the 
thousand. Some people do n't like to eat it. 

Some of the above parties, being clever, 
may make the obvious retort that this screed 
is n't in the English language either. Quite 
true; but "You 're another " is not recognized 
as an unanswerable argument so far from the 
Bowery as the Olympian Heights where they 
dwell, and whither other folks are trying to 
follow them. This is a suburb that is not yet 
over-crowded, and where rents are still mod- 
erate. An Olympian Heights realty company 
W'Ould soon be bankrupt. 

But enough of this. Let us remember, in 
common humanity, that of making many 
books about books there is no end. Why read 
books, when innumerable books about books 



Introduction xv 



tell us more about books than we could ever 
learn by reading the books? 

Bill does not appear in our second act. He 
comes to life in the third, in which he endeav- Ir's" h'umor 
ors to oblige by iteration of those formulas 
of speech which us literary men know consti- 
tute the grim, unsmiling, sometimes deadly, 
humor of the old-time western gun-fighter. 
It 's easy. Anybody can do it. A great many 
people have done it. Some-shore-podner- 
stranger-hitting the high places-sitting in the 
game, etc., etc. Now you can all go off, work 
along the Cafe Trail to the D. T. Carry, eat 
a little opium, and write plays that are really 
about the wilderness, — tours de force, in which 
the atmosphere of the big outdoors will hang 
in luscious srohs from the scenery. It is bet- gobs of 

^ -^ ATMOSPHERE 

ter not to expect too much of the actors. The 
best of them are little more than human. The 
stage carpenter is a very successful author 
these days. 

We may suppose that when our second act unbroken 
opens. Bill has taken a job as pastry cook wilderness 
to a party of campers in the unbroken, al- 
though slightly damaged, wilderness of the 
Adirondacks. Nature is sometimes almost 
smothered when her reservations are opened 
to her devotees. Bill's duties include the care 



XVI 



The Wilderness 



A FOREST 
IDYL 



NATURE 
AND HER 
WORSHIPERS 



and the packing of the folding camp stove, of 
the supply of coal for the same, of the supply 
of canned goods (very necessary in this wil- 
derness, as they average about eighty per cent, 
water, and the native water supply there is 
mostly contaminated with sewage), the pneu- 
matic beds (quite essential in the wild, and 
only eighteen pounds each), the hat boxes of 
the ladies of the party, etc., etc. 

He may be seen engaged in sparking the 
maid of one of the ladies, who, having dressed 
her mistress's hair, has' leisure to row with 
him on the lake. The oars are pinned to the 
boat, so that Bill, careless fellow, can't let 
them go adrift, and so that he will not have 
to strain his brain by trying to remember to 
feather. 

Or perhaps, he (Bill, yo.u know) is busy 
clearing ground for the site of a new camp. 
This he finds hard work. Hours of unremit- 
ting toil are required to collect and bury out 
of sight the paper collars, old rubber boots, 
discarded tooth-brushes, -and other offerings 
with which worshipers of Nature have deco- 
rated their goddess. Bill is untouched by 
the sentiment of it. Not being restrained by 
the presence of Betty, he expresses his crude 



Introduction xvii 



feelings in language that would not be set up 
by any religious, or even respectable^ printing 
establishment. He can swear in case of real feelings 
necessity; but he does not believe in wasting 
good profanity. It is to be feared that he is 
not religious : he only tries to be square, with 
himself and with others. And he has in his 
dull, untutored mind a prejudice against 
many of those well-established principles and 
practices without which society, certainly our 
best society, could not exist. Bill is real 
foolish. 

But he can follow a trail. The imagmary of mud 
rumor that heJost the trail somewhere in the 
Racquette Lake region, where there are so 
many commodious and tasty camps, with rus- 
tic work, and sanitary plumbing, and things, 
and wandered into a < swamp, which grew 
softer and softer as he advanced, until, find- 
ing the mud running into his mouth and ears, 
he began, too late, to think that he might have 
missed the trail, and so perished miserably, — 
this rumor has no foundation in fact. But 
there are people like that. Quite some time 
ago there was a man who knew a perfectly 
lovely and refined lady who had a second 
cousin of that kind. He is dead now, — the 



xvin 



The Wilderness 



AUTOMOBILES 

AND 

FASHION 



JUSTICE TO 
THE MINOR 
CHARACTERS 



second cousin. It is not always pure accident. 
Sometimes it is quite impure. And some 
people like mud, anyway. 

The fact that an aeroplane, or at least a 
motor-car, is not one of the characters in 
our play, demands an apology. But, really, 
human beings were invented first. Sometimes 
we forget this. But it can be proved. This 
paragraph is written with the humane pur- 
pose of at least ringing in the words. Be- 
sides, this makes it more probable that the 
seal of fashion will be set upon this play, if it 
is ever produced. We are too prpne to forget 
that we can do but little in this world or in 
the next without that approval. It is awfully 
hard for some of us to get it; and there are 
wretches in human form who never do. One 
of these worried along without it for a time; 
but he soon died of shame. His form was so 
bad that he was 1iump-backed. Curse 
him! 

Ordinary good feeling requires that some- 
thing should be said here about some of the 
rninor characters who do n't get a fair show 
in the play. It is not possible to give every- 
one a fat part. And it will not do to leave 
anyone in the world with the false impression 
that he does not figure somewhere here. 



Introduction xix 



The chairs in the second act are important, ^^ chairs 
and any competent stage manager will see the 
necessity of casting some of his best material 
for these parts. It will be hard; but it can 
be done. These chairs must stand about with 
an expression as human as they are able to 
assume. Much depends on the point of view. 
The reader or the spectator may not be hard, 
to please : some, fortunately for their families, 
are not. 

The point of view, by the way, is a funny the point 
thing. The police commissioner sees the flat- 
tering statistics of arrests and the two thou- 
sand additional patrolmen that he can't get; 
the dull-witted burgher sees a number of fat 
men, who can neither run nor fight, and who 
must therefore club, and frequently does not 
see his silverware. The street cleaning com- 
missioner sees the number of loads of refuse 
removed ; the man in the street sees, and 
smells, and tastes only the wing-ed filth upon 
which he and his children are nourished. And 
he blithely contributes to the common weal by 

THE 

sweeping his own filth into the street, know- common 



ing that the police are too dignified and too 
busy with more important matters to stop 
him, and that the street cleaning department 
will remove the filth in a few years. We have 



WEAL 



The Wilderness 



OTHER MINOR 
CHARACTERS 



THE HOTEL 
CLERK 



reduced our civilization to a science; and the 
free American citizen will spit to windward, if 
he likes. The other fellow- must look out for 
himself. 

From time to time in the second act per- 
sons, of the human species [It is almost as un- 
important as it is in real life w^hether they are 
really of the human species : it is only essen- 
tial that they should fool us.] pass through 
the hotel office, some of them pausing to hold 
communion with oneanother, or w-ith the 
clerk, who is behind his desk, and w^ho is care- 
ful, as any man of right feeling Avould be, in 
his position, not .to give ofifenee to his patrons 
or to the audience. As the exigencies of a 
play require that these communications should 
be inaudible out front, it is useless for the 
audience to try to pry into the secrets of these 
dummy characters. They all mean well; but 
there is reason to fear that the process of in- 
tellectual development w-as arrested in some 
of them at an early age : we all have friends' 
like that. These characters are really of very 
little interest except to the anthropologist. 

The hotel clerk deserves a w^ord. He is 
very polite. The parties who had to get this 
play out of their systems, or, as Bill says, 
''blow-up," have had the honor of his acquain- 



Introduction ^^^ 



tance for some years, and are glad to embrace 

this opportunity to vouch for his character. 

He is a model son, a loving husband, and a 

devoted father, as so many of us are after we 

are dead. The clerk is a better man. He 

always passes the plate at divme worship m Sharacter 

the village church Sunday evening; and he 

seldom, indeed, fails to turn in seventy-five 

per cent of the collection. He needs the 

money, as many of us short-change men, big 

and little, do. But it will not do to dwell 

upon his manifold virtues, lest attention be 

diverted from the play. Of course this makes 

it almost impossible to cast for this part an 

actor with a sufficiently virtuous-looking face, 

but that can't be helped. • ^ 

As the curtain goes up on the second act, malefactor 
Mrs. Davis, wife, and spender of Thomas Y. wealth 
Davis the notorious captain of industry, is 
sweeping through the hotel office.* It does 



XXll 



The \Vi liter NESS 



CLOTHES 
AND GOOD 
FORM 



THINGS 
ESSENTIAL 



not matter much how she is dressed. If she 
is a respectable woman, she will have to read 
her lines in such raiment as her salary will 
warrant. But it is suggested that neither a 
bathing-suit nor a nightgown would be the 
thing, although quite as appropriate as the 
clothes, and more especially the shoes, that 
we often pay our good money to see on the 
stage. Mrs. Davis realizes that the fact that 
the local newspaper once rang her in as *'a 
prominent society belle" in 'her native town, 
does not qualify her for the metropolitan han- 
dicap. She is a little raw, and has not learned 
to wear her frocks [Or is gowns now the 
smarter word? These things are important.] 
with the glad unconsciousness and native 
grace of Fortune's favorites who really be- 
long. 

These things are not merely important: 
they are of the essence. Why, there was once 
a man who, in a moment of madness, took off 
his hat in a London club. The building col- 
lapsed ; and three men, four younger sons of 
noble families, and a number of French counts 



the highly trained audience of to-day. The dramatist 
who would succeed must address himself to the intel- 
}ect, as well as to the heart. Such simple characters 
as Beatrix and Bill are good only for one-night stands, 
except perhaps as chasers in a vawd'vil programme. 



Introduction xxiii 



were killed, — dead. These counts had come 
over to recover from scratches received in en- 
counters on the field of honor. They were 
hardy fellows. Very few of them had fought 
much in the West, and none of them had ever hardy 

FELLOWS 

happened to meet Bill when he was feeling 
real peevish. They and their titles were sin- 
cerely mourned by an aggregate of nearly 
eighty millions of good American dollars; 
and one of our raciest newspapers w^as com- 
pelled to suspend publication. It was a sad 
affair, and occasioned some unfavorable com- 
ment at the time. 

Mrs. Davis is still self-conscious, and can clothes 

AND THE 

not understand that the truly fashionable real thing 
women of our finest American culture wear 
their sartorial creations solely for their own 
gratification. You may learn much by watch- 
ing them. But 'do n't let them catch you at it. 
Their sensitive, high-bred natures shrink from 
any approach to publicity. This compels us 
to admire the nerve and the cruel ingenuity of 
our ablest editors in securing and publishing 
so many photographs of them and their 
clothes. How do these men dare to do it 
without the consent, or at least the conni- 
vance, of their beautifully gowned victims, 
whose agony of soul we can imagine when 



XXIV 



The Wilderness 



FEMININE 
REFINEMENT 



PREDATORY 
WEALTH 



A PLAIN 
WOMAN 



they find themselves thus made pubHc prop- 
erty, — treated as if they were Hke those orna- 
ments of Broadway culture who frankly 
dress to hit you in the eye? These ornaments 
can not understand the point of view of their 
really refined sisters. They are unable to com- 
prehend that some people are so primitive that 
they think that the perfect flower of vulgarity 
is the woman who is manifestly conscious of 
her clothes, her hat, her coiffure. Bill is not 
the only foolish person. 

Mrs. Davis's manners and enunciation, not 
less than her costume, should express, as well 
as possible, that blending of costly elegance 
and inappropriateness which typifies the too 
hasty effort to assimilate predatory wealth. 
Some folks die, one way or another, of indi- 
gestion. Her culture may be rated at about 
forty-three per cent. pure. This will not be 
found in Bradstreet, and is, therefore, exclu- 
sive information. 

Somehow (but this is the stage-manager's 
business), as the second act opens, this per- 
fect lady must be made to drift near the small 
flat-top desk that stands in the hotel oflice. 
At this opportune moment (for without this 
meeting the play could not go on) Beatrix 
emerges. We had better not trifle with her. 



Introduction xxv 



But she will not resent the statement that she 

-4- 

is dressed mostly in clothes. She is looking 
pretty intelligent for her. She does not wear 
the gems by which we can often distinguish 
the star, even when the dramatist has made stars 

' ^ AND GEMS 

her lot the lowliest. Betty's dress is of the 
simplest and most appropriate. It always is. 
We can rely upon her taste. She would not 
cause a flutter in a lunch club of lady type- 
writers, where she would see many swell 
dressers ; but she is so stuck up that she would 
not care. Her friends think that with her the 
woman, and not the clothes, is the thing. 
The reader is requested to try to believe that 
there are women like that. She does not dress 
her hair. She always wears it, and in such 
fashion that it might be regarded as a minor 
index to her character. Her hats are some 
similar. She has been heard to say that a real milliners 
hat has a certain structural quality, that all architects 
milliners ought to study architecture, and that 
some architects ought to be milliners. Betty 
will have her own way about these things. 

If everybody was a playwright [A wright ment'^for^' 
is one w^ho works with his hands or feet, — ^i3^^^-°"^^ 
same root as wrought.], the number of plays wrights 
submitted would not be much larger, but more 
people would starve to death. In the hope of 



XXVI 



The Wilderness 



accomplishing this result, the publisher has 
consented to the insertion of the following- 
free list of titles for plays. It is to be re- 
gretted that death by starvation is conipara- 
mpoRTANCE tively painless. A strong, suggestive title is 
half of the play. It is the whole of some very 
successful plays, and the inspiration ^f some 
of the finest dramatic art. Here is the list: 



OF THE 
TITLE OF A 
PLAY 



The Old Watchmaker 
Storm and Stress 
Far from Home 
The Formula 
On the Trail 
The Home Pasture 
His Friend's Wife 
The Pudding Stick 
The Bottom of the 

Well 
The Well and the 

Pitcher 
When the Time Comes 
The Throttle 
Millstones 
White Water 
Off Soundings 
The Gulf Stream 
In the Forefront 



The Old Sawmill 

Opposite Poles 

Dawn 

Backwater 

Incense 

Drumbeats 

Grist 

Their Past 

Aftermath 

Kindred 

The Furnace 

On the Peek 

Clay Feet 

Verity 

Geared Up 

The Equation 

Off the Trail 

The Woodpile 

The Cloud-Eaters 



Introduction 



XXV u 



Out of the Frying-pan 

The Stable Door 

Unsatisfied 

Timber Wolves 

Coyotes 

In the Rapids 

On the Rocks 

The Ice Pack 

Cobwebs 

There She Blows 

The Inframan 

The Laverock 

The Retreat 

Outcasts 

The Flume 

Her Past 

Fireflies 

Tares 

The Open Road 

The Peak 

Peckers and Pikers 

Blood and Water 

The Bull's Eye 

Both Ends Against 
the Middle 

The Trail 

The Back Trail 



Too Late 
Enough is Plenty 
The Buzz Saw 
False Alarms 
Both Sides of the 

Counter 
The Village Store 
Out of a Job 
Ocean Currents 
Breakers Ahead 
The Wolf Pack 
Obsession 

The Winds of Heaven 
Twilight 
At the Flood 
The Rearguard 
Smoldering Fires 
Hearts Aflame 
His Past 
Afterglow 
Banked Fires 
The Breath of the 

North 
Among the Peaks 
The Lamp 
The Long Lane 
The Early Worm 



Back of the WoodshedA Driving Finish 



XXVlll 



The Wilderness 



The Dead Centre 
The Flywheel 
The Roof tree 
Out .^f the Void 



The Limit 
The Diver 
Damaged Goods 
The Hearthstone 



The Joint in his Armorlnto the Night 
Naughty Neurasthenia The Walking Delegate 



The Spanish Coil 
Dei Gratia 
The Yap 
Locomotor Taxi 
Angels and Fools 
The Tiderip 
The Stinkpot 
Hot Dogs and Warm 

Babies 
Up Against It 
The Password 
The Test Tube 
The Blot 

The Strap-hangers 
Flotsam 
The Long Trail 
The Cyclone 
The Chaperone 
Faint Hearts 
The Idolater 
Too Much is Enough 
Easy Money 



In Flood 

On the Bleachers 
Builded on Sand 
The Yawp 
The Craftsman 
Storm Signals 
The Bell Wether 
The Crucible 
The Grouch 
The Sooner 
Outposts 

Once upon a Time 
Three Strikes 
Star Drift 
The Blizzard 
Lasses and Lushers 
None so Blind 
The Bouncer . 
Dead to Rights 
The Rack 
The Frame-Up 
She Saw Him First 



Introduction 



XXIX 



The Beachcomber 
The Long Night 
Two-Edged Candles 
Queen Queerinia 
The Driven Well 
The Ambassador 
The Cloudburst 
Getting His 
Settled out of Court 
The Indian Sign 
The Handigraftsman 
The Tote Road 
His Own Petard 
A Cold Proposition 
In the Balance 

The Fulness of Time 

Shades 

The Bolt 

The Big Noise 

The Derelict 

The Deluge 

On the Job 

Time 

The Failure 

The Cataract 

The Thumbscrew 
_The Summons 

The Last Straw 



The Dreamer 
Deliverance 
The Cavern 
Loaded Dice 
On the Snaffle^ 
Milestones 
The Talking Wire 
The Battle Joined 
Mummies and Mame- 
lukes 
Vulgar Fractions 
The Paladin 
Wild Oats and Prim- 
roses 
The Abyss 
The Glad Hand 
Guess Again 

The Freebooters 

The Anvil 

Forget It 

All In 

And Yet 

The Smugglers 

The Double Cross 

Spooks 

A Sordid Boon 

The Has Been 

The Wisdom of Fools 



XXX 



The Wilderness 



When the Waters are 
Moved 

The Glacier 

The Last Stand 

The Dial 

The Caravan 

The Craven 

Shoving the Queer 

The Rocket 

The Chrysalis 

The Devil Wagon 

The Tables Turned 

Unchained 

By Their Fruits 

The Weathercock 

The Abbess 

Dotty's Duty 

The Scorpion 

The Torch 

Cut Off 

Four of a Kind 

Ace High 

At Last 

But Even So 

Cormorants 

Cakes and Ale 

It Happens Some- 
times 



The Viper 

Playing the Game 

Everyone Knows 

Daughters and Dollars 

Footprints 

The Middle Watch 

H-alf Tide 

Half Tied 

Graven Images 

Harpies 

Sunset 

Bubbles 

The Northern Light 

The Turntable 

Heat Lightning 

Garnered Chaff 

Wayfarers 

Bangles and Bingles 

The Handout 

A Gold Brick 

The Touch 

Thunderheads 

The Bluff 

Princess Paranoia 

Please Remit 

If 

The Scarib 

Whiffs 



IntrodUctiok 



XXXI 



What Do You Know 

About That? 
Vapor 

In the Valley 
The Coast of Destiny 
Sons and Simoleons 
Skundolater Skinks 
Aphrodite 
The Wreckers 
Undertones 
The Blessed 'isle 
How Jones Did It 
An Avuncular Avia- 
tor 
The Bankrupt 
As the Sands of the 

Sea 
Playthings of Fate 
A Peak in Darien 
A Peek at Mary Ann 
On the Ponies 
Keep the Change 
Turst Tickleiminy 
Off the Range 
Back to the Farm 
Sharks and Suckers 
Twice Two is Five 
The Keystone 



Karook Kanikity 

Mirage 

Nobody's Nothing 

Old, Forgotten, Far- 
off Things 

O Mommer 

Bacteria Brannigan 

Blue Roses 

The Mercy of the 
Cruel 

An Incubator Baby 

Julliny Quimper and 
Then Some 

A Beautiful Night- 
mare 

Pussywillow 

The Flagellants 

Pieces of Eight 

Bachelors' Buttons 

Hard Sledding 

The Harvest 

Persiflagiston 

Long Odds 

As by Fire 

Ploggs's Paltomany 

The Flowering Rod 

The Falling Star 

Salponica 



XXXll 



The Wilderness 



Play Ball 

When the Lid is On 
The Rail Fence 
A Scotch Verdict 
Docks and Drakes 
Hot Ploughshares 
The Hornets' Nest 
The Sundial 
The Spring Drive 
The Heir Apparent 
The Sanctuary 
His Good Money - 
Noriska Nostugea 
Too Often Profaned 
He Rode Alone 
Many Thunders 
The County Fair 



Fatty's Fortune 
Once Too Often 
A Farmodic Fantasy 
Wide Open 
Uncle Abijah 
The Peony 
The Cold Gray Dawn 
The Folks Back Home 
The Weakest Link 
Who Tagged Him? 
Just as Easy 
Penelope's Pleasance 
The Pleached Alley 
The Key Log 
The Gargoyle 
The Cinch 
Half a Loaf 



The Whaslin Whoffer The Golden Ass 



The Daydreamer 
The Pillars of the 

Temple 
The Falid Faxtol 
In God's Country 
A Sporting Proposi- 
tion 



When Roses Bloom 
Less Than Kin 
Sackcloth and Terra- 
pin 
A Merry Morgue 
The Dilettante 
The Guerdon 



Boobs and Boomerangs Quaravinta Quaroon 
The .Necromancer He Who Reads May 

From First to Last Run 



Introduction 



XXXlll 



The Good Old Demon 

The Lion's Skin 

The Warwhoop 

Looking Ahead 

The Lash 

Cinders 

The Jonglers 

The West Gable 

Goblins 

The Vortex 

The Parent Stem 

The Harbor of Refuge 

The Lee Shore 

Back Bearings 

Besieged 

Flames 

Root and Branch 

The Leash 

The Passer-up 

The Janglers 

The Barn-Stormers 

The Brain-Stormers 



Hoboes and Hobgob- 
lins 
Against the Current 
East and West 
His Own People 
On the Battlements 
Under Full Sail 
As the Sparks Fly 

Upward 
The Mine 
Glowworms 
Ashes 

Wolves and Watch- 
dogs 
The Kiss Jig 
The Flop Kiss 
Kisses and Cusses 
The Kiss That Failed 
Parthian Kisses 
Mostly Kisses 
The Kinetic Kiss 
Caramels and Kisses 



But the foreman of the composing room 
says that this must stop. He is a man with- 
out soul. In fact, he is on his spiritual uppers. 

The above titles are expressly exempted generous 
from the copyright of this book. Anyone can o'^'^^R 



xxxiv The Wilderness 

use them. More : ten dollars reward will be 
paid to anyone who has the nerve to use one 
of them for a play that is really put on in New 
York. Plays that are put off, no matter how 
long, do n't count. Managers are more leary. 
They have been caught too often. A reward 
of twenty-five dollars w^ill be paid to the man- 
ager in such a case, and he will receive a ticket 
to a box seat in the Hall of Fame. There he 
will find some really excellent people. Do n't 
crowed. You can have as many more of these 
titles as you want, after this list has been used 
up. A full line of effective situations, some 
of them slightly shopworn, is also on hand, 
and wall be disposed of at bargain-counter 
BROKEN prices. Staoe business in broken lots, at ruin- 

LOTS ^ ^ ^ . 

ous prices, — by the pound, yard, or firkni. 
Every day is bargain day. Our doors are 
always open. Any professional humorist will 
know that the proper way to wind up this is 
with an exhortation to come early and avoid 
the crush. Experience has taught us all that 
this- is funny. Our playwrights have learned 
that old jests and japes are the safest; and 
familiarity is the fertilizer of the jester's gar- 
den. To some people this old friend wall be 
the only funny thing in all this amorphous 
production. 



Introduction xxxv 

With the same end in view, the writers ^'r^ght's'*'' 
give away some of the secrets of the craft, note- book 
Everyone should try to be esoteric. The prin- 
cipal part of the equipment of the mechan — 
of the wright is his note-book. In this in- 
spired volume he sets down all the good things 
that are revealed or conveyed to him, and all 
the spontaneous epigrams and effective situa- 
tions that afflict his over-trained imagination. 
When he has enough of these, he is ready. 
The divine afflatus is backed up in his system. 
The play springs into life under the magic 
touch of his o:enius, — coherent, homo2:eneous, a work 
convincing, verisimilitudinous, a miniature of 
life, glowing with inspiration, reeking with 
atmosphere, vital with that sublimated reality 
which is the height of art and the acme of 
poetry. This process precludes all danger of 
a mechanical result. If a friend says a par- 
ticularly goo^ thing, it may be -necessary to 
kill him, in order that the gem may not be 
spoiled by handling before it is presented in 
its proper setting. Most of us will sacrifice 
anything for art. And we all have friends 
who have lived too long, anyway. It is true 
that the spider spins his web, however intri- 
cate and beautiful, from his own insides. But 
we must not be misled by a mere simile. No 



OF GENIUS 



XXXVl 



The Wilderness 



PREDATORY 
INSECT 



BRILLIANT 
TACITURNITY 



A 

DISCOURAG- 
ING VIEW 



Spider ever built a successful play. This is a 
sufficient answer to those perfectionists who 
profess to believe that this misguided insect is 
the prototype of the dramatist as distinguished 
from the playwright. And even the spider is 
predatory. 

The successful dramatist is necessarily a 
dull companion. He is constrained to file in the 
secret drawers of his mind, for professional 
use, the sparkling phrases and repartehes 
which he is constantly formulating. Were he, 
inadvertently, to let one of them escape, some 
fellow craftsman, getting away with it, would 
snatch the terrapin from the mouths of the 
luckless originator and his press agent. If, 
then, you think of making a play, remember 
that a brilliant utterance is nearly always a 
combination of words; that, the number of 
words being limited, the number of possible 
combinations is finite; that only a small pro- 
portion of the possible combinations can be 
expected to approach the playwright's standard 
of unforced effulgence; and that the available 
supply of this residuum is suffering diminu- 
tion daily. You can't be blamed if you are 
discouraged : perhaps you will deserve heart- 
felt commendation. 

Perhaps the most important question for the 



Introduction xxxvli 



dramatist is, ''What will the public stand 
for?" It can not be hard for the public to sit 
through anything it will stand for. It will 
stand for anything you can make people be- 
lieve to be the vehicle of a Great Moral Les- 
son. Pasteurized plays do n't pay. A Lofty lofty 
Purpose will float the garbage-can on the and'^the 
stream of success every time. It is not neces- can^^^^' 
sary to dramatize the Lofty Purpose, or even 
to persuade very many of its reality. But it 
must be made easy for anyone who sees the 
play four or five times to make his friends 
believe that he believes that they believe that 
the Great Moral Lesson and the Lofty Pur- 
pose are what get him. This is not difficult, 
for in the theatre people love to inhale a stench 
the horse-powder of which just fails to lift them 
out of their seats. Therefore, get your money of 
down on Uplift, — uplift of the mind, of the 
heart, or (safest of all) of the stomach. 

It is a wise manager that knows the limit. ^^^ ^,g^ 
Some managers do n't know anything else : ivianager 
they do n't have to. Of course, the broadest 
culture and the mo.st catholic taste can find 
beauty where those not so w^ell endowed per- 
ceive only putridity. But with these unfortu- 
nates, the fear that they will be called pro- 
vincial, that they will be thought to be the 



XXXVlll 



The Wilderness 



OF 

ROSES AND 

FERTILIZERS 



OF ACTION 



victims of parochial prejudice, will serve very 
well the purpose of the ambitious playwright^ 
If you really understand these things, a sample 
of the manure with which they were fertilized 
will accompany the roses you send to your best 
girl. When you get her pretty well educated, 
you may omit the roses. If she does n't like 
this, she is too narrow-minded and intolerant 
to be taken seriously: she will never learn 
that all true beauty has its roots in corruption, 
and that therefore corruption is the truest 
beauty. 

Do n't forget that you must have action, and 
then some. Something must be doing every 
minute, — on the stage, you understand. Do n't 
try to be a playwright and a psychologist. 
Your business is to provide visible and audible 
action. Nothing is action, in the technical 
sense, that is not intensely visible or audible. 
You are not concerned with what may happen 
in the minds of your audience, if you only 
avoid the dangers spoken of above. Just give 
'em action. You can be reasonably certain 
that the eyes and the ears down front are in 
w^orking order : you have no assurance as to 
the brains. Somehow this fails to explain why 
those actors of the past whose names survive 
were not acrobats. Not long ago an actor 



Introduction xxxix 



won imperishable fame by the way in w^hich 

he fell over a precipice or out of an airship, 

with a knife between his teeth, or his ribs, or 

some of his bony parts. He had Macready, a famous 

and Kean, and Booth.^and Salvini, and Coque- 

lin, and Alarcelline beat a mile, — horizontally, 

and vertically, and every way. Wliat was his 

name ? 



Sometimes it is better to concentrate most a big 
of the action in one big scene. Studied dull- 
ness in all that goes before will prepare the 
visuance * for this climax. This will suggest 
to the thoughtless that what they have some- 
times taken for the stupidity of successful 
plays was really the height of art. The first 
play to contain a realistic motor-car race will 
be a record-breaker. Thousands will come T'lFB.r^rr«^ 
quite a number of miles, and will sit cheer- 
fully through the rubbish of which the first 
three acts will, of course, be composed, if the 
play-builder understands his trade, to experi- 
ence the thrill of that Great Scene. If the 
smell of garbage is mingled in due proportion 

* This word merely recognizes the fact that the ap- 
peal of the up-to-date drama is to the eye rather than 
to the ear. The individual units in the audience, so- 
called, are spectators, and the Cfuestion is, "Have you 
seen The Mark of the Beast ?" — not "Have you heard," 
etc. 



xl The Wilderness- 

with that of the garage, any manager who is 
on his job will jump at the play, unless, yield- 
ing to the force of habit, he jumps on it. It 
should be possible to stage it nicely for a hun- 
dred and sixty-five thousand dollars, and to 
make the public believe it cost three hundred 
thousand. The play may be entitled "The Joy- 
Riders." And after the smash-up (one of the 
near-Great Scenes), the funny man, pointing 
to the driver, who has crawled unhurt from 
the wreck of the noble car, will say to the 'mil- 
lionaire : 'Ts that all you have to chauffer 
your fifteen thousand dollars?" This wall re- 
lieve the tension, the funny man being regu- 
larly depewted to perform this sad office. And 
everyone will know that this is funny, because 
^^NCTK)N^^ the funny man says it. A clear understanding 
COMEDIAN Qf j;jjg function saves the audience much men- 
tal effort. The complete scenario of this great 
drama, with one doz. ass't'd jsts, for the f. m., 
quite up to the standard of those above, and 
working plans from which a journeyman car- 
penter can build, will be furnished to any man- 
ager for seven dollars and a half, forty per 
cent, off for cash. Any of his hired men can 
fill in the w'ords. If the playwright will fur- 
nish the agony, the dialogue will take care of 
itself. As an able and successful manager 



Introduction xli 



has said: '^Anyone can write the dialogue." 

Words are more or less necessary in a play, reading 

•' . PLAYS AND 

but they are mere adjuncts to the essentials. ^^Tlfl^ 
Perhaps it was otherwise before the discovery 
that ability to speak English is not a necessary 
qualification of the factory-made American 
star. At best, words can only convey ideas; 
and a play is not ideas : it is action, — action 
and scenery and business. Hence the well- 
recognized distinction between ''reading 
plays" and ''acting plays." The reading play 
is addressed to the mind : the acting play is 
addressed to eyes and ears. The reading play, 
being words, sometimes expressing ideas, 
can't be acted : the acting; play, beins: action 

& i ^ ' o YOUR 

and scenery, can't be read. As literature, the butcher's 
manuscript of an acting play is comparable to 
your butcher's bill. This explains why our 
modern dramatic masterpieces are not always 
among the best sellers. The actor can get 
over with fine effect many-a quip that would 
perish in the galley of the compositor. If 
your maternal aunt can read your play with- 
out going to sleep, you may know that it will 
not do for the stage. Unfortunately, the con- 
verse is not always true : Auntie may nod over 
your play, and so may the audience. The fact 
that anything that can't be presented by hu- 



xliv I'liE Wilderness 

HEADED ^'^' Another thing (and this begins to look like 

MONSTER giving away the whole snap) : always write 

with one eye on your typewriter (if it, or she, 
is pretty) and one on your audience. This 
may give you mental, moral, and social strab- 
ismus, but it W'ill lead to the production of a 
successful play. Never forget the box-office. 
It is easy to provide cues for the players, but 
CUES AND the queue in the lobby is the only one that the 
manager will respond to. Remember, then, 
that the audience is dull, brutal, sordid, illogi- 
cal, — a cave-man in intellect, an infant in rea- 
son, a ruffian in instinct, a schoolgirl in senti- 
ment. It has been trained to understand cer- 
tain labels and symbols of the dramatic art. 
Our popular playwrights never forget this : 
they know that if they did, they w^ould soon 
be w^earing fringes on their pants. If you do 
violence to the audience in any of the above 
characters, it will turn and rend you. And if 
any fool dramatic critic thinks that the good 
people have been hasty or mistaken, he will be 
afraid to say so. , 
HEADs'^oF^ To write' ''over the heads of the audience" 

AUDIENCE is the crowning error of the fool, although 
many very earnest and eminently unsuccessful 
dramatists have attributed their failure to this' 
noble fault. Dazzled by the bitter sincerity 



Introduction xlv 



of their own souls, they can not always per- 
ceive that although the play with a Purpose 
may be the only play worth while, a mixture 
of ninety per cent, of Purpose with ten per 
cent, of play does n't give many people what 
they want in the theatre. You must under- 
stand that plays are written for the lads and 
the lasses whose idea of poetic fancy is epi- 
tomized in the phrase, ''the lobster palaces of 
the Great White Way," They are the public 
of the dramatist who would not court an early 
frost. 

Yet it may be questioned whether anyone, gi^^cERiTY 
however heavily charged with a Message, has 
ever succeeded in waiting a play (not an es- 
say, or a sermon, or a lecture, or a debate, in 
dialogue; for something more than an earn- 
est purpose and a limber typewriter is needed 
for the construction of a plaf) that was over 
the heads of the people. By all means, believe, 
if you can, what you are trying to say: the 
professors who know so much about plays that 
they never try to write one, tell us that sin- 
cerity is the backbone of the drama. But the 
human appeal of the untrimmed backbone is g^cK-BONES 
somewhat limited. One play is enough for one 
audience, — sometimes too much; but every 
play needs a number of audiences, and the 



xlvi The Wilderness 

principal constituent of an audience is the peo- 
ple in it. In sizing up the popular taste from 
the plays that people go to see, our brightest 
and brainiest managers are prone to overlook 
the p*robable fact that very few elect to .go to 
see plays that are not produced. The point of 
view obtrudes itself again: the rag-picker 
overhauling his stock in the cellar can't see 
above the feet of the passing multitude. Yet 
some of these people have heads at the other 
end. 
CRmcs"'^ The big stick that some of these newspaper 

fellows own hangs, covered with cobwebs, in 
a forgotten corner of the attic. They fear that 
if they were to hit a few^ swipes with it, they 
jwould knock dramatic art clean out of the box. 
It is easier and safer for them to yell them- 
selves hoarse over every safety bunt than to 
get thin by thinking of the old days of home 
runs. Nobody wants to live without eating; 
and every newspaper is owned by someone. 
This explains many things. 
that^do'nh-^ Occasionally some of these newspaper boys, 
COME OFF laying aside their mordant pens, get together 
in a sound-proof beer-cellar, and make modern 
iRome howl, — in their minds. Then they some- 
,times say what they think they really think. 
Then they bewail their double bondage,-^to 



Introduction xlvii 



what they vulgarly and ungratefully call iDas- 
tard art, without which they could n't live, and 
to despotic capital, without which they would 
either starve or have to learn to live without 
eating. Then they give full sway to the intel- 
lectual, artistic, and social independence which 
characterizes us New Yorkers. They are true 
reformers, and they are in office. W^e all 
know what a sobering, not to say sedative, 
effect that has. 

But let all these parties take couras^e. Some dawn of a 

... . . NEW ERA 

of our most prominent citizens with binfuls of 
the most prominent money are making a deter- 
mined effort to stand the pyramid on its 
apex.* What can not money do to — no, with 
art? And what can art do without money? 
They have endowed a real theatre with real 
money, and are beginning to learn what art 
can do to money. This sumptuous structure 
will be the home and temple of the real thing. yhe^rIal'^ 
Only real plays with real actors will be shown thing 
there. Already the scenery has compelled the 
admiration of all the critics. Some of the easy 
drinkers" in the newspaper crowd have sug- 
gested, flippantly enough, that as real plays 
and real actors flourish in our metropolitan 

* This paragraph was written long before half a mil- 
lion dollars' worth of experience had demonstrated sev- 
eral more or less obvious truths. 



1 The Wilderness 

she makes a thousand revolutions a minute. 
She is asserting, quite as if it and she were 
worth while, her individuality, — her congested 
ego. By fonfiing, and particularly by vocif- 
erating, her determination to live her own life, 
she easily becomes the most important thing 
in the world. Here, then, are all the essentials 
of great drama. The little vulgar boy in the 
gallery may express his appreciation in his 
pretty, childish fashion, by singing out, "Her 
to the funny house." But after we have read 
the critiques, we know that we have witnessed 
a great performance of a great play. Then 
we are content, for we learn, on the best 
authority, that we have had . our -money's 
OUR WOMEN worth; althoue^h we have been made sadly 

FOLKS ° . . . -^ 

aware of the emotional deficiencies of the 
women folks who darn our socks. One good 
warm importation will show you more emo- 
tion in one Big Scene than all our women 
showed from Bull Run to Gettysburg. Then 
you perceive that tragedy is, not in what hap- 
pens to you, but in the way you take it. That 
art is the finest which makes the deepest trag- 
edy out of the shallowest characters. The 
svelt person is acting. The women of the 
North and the women of the South were only 



Introduction ^i 



In writing for the stage, then, it is neces- human^ ^^^ 
sary to understand that folks go to the theatre the stage 
to see what they never have seen, never will 
see, and never could see, in their tabid lives. 
Hence, if you put too much human nature into 
your play, you obscure the dramatic art of it. 
Our skilled playwrights understand this. 
They have too much respect for their art to 
fall into this fatal error, and they have too 
much respect for human nature to desecrate it 
by displaying it carelessly upon the stage. 
They are men of fine feeling,— and sometimes 
funny. If they are clever (and how clever 
they all are!), we should be satisfied. And 
they depict such perfect ladies and gents of 
such good form. And humor— my! but 
they 're funny. They have to be, even if they 
can't. And even the least brilliant of them 
knows that the regular stock pair of cub loy- gotfmNATioN 
ers and a line of thoroughly seasoned comic 
relief make a combination that always tickles 
the thoughtful play-goer almost to death. 

Why, there was once a dramaturge,— an ^^rl^T^MENT^ 
awfully nice fellow, with five toes on his left 
foot. He was born so: he could n't help it. 
He confided to his admirers that he had a call 
to reform the modern drama; but certain ill- 
natured playwrights whose work had been re- 



lii The Wilderness 

jected of the managers insisted that he had 
heard some other noise. His masterpiece was 
the finest ever, — a very model of dramatur- 
gidity. It was full of the most beautiful senti- 
ment ; but it lacked comic relief, — very neces- 
sary; a play must have it, you understand. 
This poetic party [His neckties were perfect 
dreams.] was so full of fine, not to say tenu- 
ous, feeling, that he seldom took a joke, al- 
though, as, like all us geniuses, he was often 
hard up, his friends sometimes missed other 
little articles. His belfry w^as so full of bats 

FRIENDS that his ladifriends just.knew he was the 

goods. Anyhow, his characters could n't have 
been funny. That would not have done. They 
w^ere the vehicles of real sentiment and feel- 
ing. Where would Abraham Lincoln be as an 
heroic figure, if he had ever dared to make a 
joke? 

HUMOR AND Ou the othcr hand, such are the paradoxes 

ANCIENT . , 

HEROES that we mortals are up against, some of the 

heroes of ancient history sometimes made 
themselves ridiculous, because they had no 
sense of humor, subjective or objective, which-, 
we must understand, is either a disease, or an 
abnormal development, of the sense of pro- 
portion. 

RELIEF ^" ^^^ drama, as in life, comic relief is a 



Introduction liii 



necessary ingredient. Often the untimely 
laugh affords the only escape from insupport- 
able woe. Some things are so serious that 
they would kill us if we could n't laugh at 
them. It is better to laugh than to die. Per- 
haps we sometimes fail to realize that only 
the opportune administration of the play- 
wright's favorite counter-irritant has saved us 
from a horrible death at two dollars a seat. 
We should be thankful for the dose, even if it 
is forced down our throats by main strength. 
The playwright, he know^s. If he has no hu- 
mor, he will get some. But usually he has 
an inexhaustible store of it in his note-book. 

It is very important not to o-et these thins^s the impor- 

t rr 1 , • , -r • TANCE OF 

mixed, if the herome, who typines sentnnent not getting 

' -^^ THINGS 

and all the tender emotions, or the hero, whose mixed 
job is to be a real noble feller, were to make 
a joke, they would find themselves playing to 
an audience of corpses; and this would make 
it uninteresting on both sides of the footlights. 
Of course the funny man (who will always 
have a job, since the process of perfecting the 
dramatic art has been brought to a triumphant 
conclusion) may be allowed to say something 
tinged with true sentiment, along toward the 
end. This is very effective. 

Well, this playwright had a friend, who, 



The Wilderness 



coMi^^"^ ^^ being- seldom sober, was wonderfully clever, 
and a master of persiflahaha-age ; and he sug- 
gested a great idea to the wright. So they 
w^orked on it together, and polished it up. The 
result was seen when the play was put on, * 
and the w^onderful sentiment of it had reduced 
to tears the orchestra leader, and the head 
usher, who is cynical and hard to move, and 
the fireman in thg wings, and all the marriage- 
able girls in the audience, and even some of the 
paper in the back row^s. In a sentimental 
sense, it was a knock-out punch. All these 
folks were groggy, — they w^ere taking a walk 
down Queer Street. But for the lovely inci- 

'musk?'^"'''^^ dental music, these parties would have passed 
away in ecstatic agony. The music saved 
them. It mercifully took their minds off the 
fatal poesy of the play, and they, survived. At 
this psychological moment, suddenly, down the 
steps of the chateau [The piece was an inter- 
national romance.] came four flunkeys in the 
livery of the noble house of the hero [He was 
real light-complected.], bearing in their stal- 
wart arms (of all things!) a donkey, a real, 
live donkey. Of course, this gave immediate 

* The writers wanted to speak of this as the premiere 
of the play, thus, "when the play had its premiere But 
they find that only dramatic critics are licensed to use 
this knowing and super-elegant word. 



Tntrodlktiox Iv 



relief. But that was not all. They carried 
the donkey upside down. This was more un- 
expected still. And every competent play- 

\ 1 / ESSENCE 

w right knows that unexpectedness (or some- of^ humor 
times repetition) is the essence of humor. If 
vou hear a thino- said nine or ten times in a 
play, you may be almost sure it is funny. 
Do n't forget this. In fact, for the drama, 
repetition may be said to be the soul of wit. 
Well, when the audience had recovered from 
the burst of merriment that rocked the house 
from pit to dome, it came out that this seem- 
ingly improbable and irrelevant occurrence 
came about in the most natural way. 

The donkey was a household pet, as he is 
in many estimable families. He was kept 
chained to his kennel in the back yard of the 
chateau. He was perfectly devoted to bones, 
and usually he was plentifully supplied. But 
the cook [See how natural this is.] had been 
drunk the night before, and had forgotten 
him. He became uneasy [We all feel that 
way sometimes. ] , and broke his chain, in which 
[Not a detail necessary to verisimilitude was 
overlooked.] there was a defective lin"k. In 
his search for bones, he got, unobserved, into 
the chateau. He crept softly up the back 
stairs, and got into the spare room (guest 



PET 
DONKEYS 



:V1 



The Wilderness 



THE GUEST 
CHAMBER 



UNREASON- 
ABLE CHAR- 
ACTERS 



A 

COSTUME 

PLAY 



A 

SOCIETY 

DRAMA 



chamber to people with incomes over three 
hundred thousand), which happened to be oc- 
cupied by a very thin, spare guest. So the don- 
key, feeling tired (again, as we all feel some- 
times), with the contrariety of his kind, 
jumped up on the bed, curled up, and, purring 
contentedly, went to sleep on a three-thousand- 
franc down quilt. So you see how naturally it 
all came about, and how convincingly the epi- 
sode was woven into the fabric of the play. It 
takes ingenuity to write plays. 

When this play was in preparation, the 
writers had many anxious conferences with the 
three principal characters. These people were 
very hard to manage. 

It was first proposed to make a costume 
play, — much the safest kind, as only the mod- 
ern thinkless actor is needed. Beatrix said it 
did n't interest her, and she guessed she 'd go 
home to the boys. And this was the woman 
of the combination! Hopeless! 

A modern society drama seemed almost 
equally alluring. There are so many excellent 
people to whom the theatre affords the only 
opportunity to get next to really smart society. 
Us dramatists owe a duty to these people, and 
on the whole we discharge it pretty conscien- 
tiously. Of course, this play was to be all 



Introduction Ivii 



right, — something a seasoned matinee girl 
could take her own mother to, — not indecent, 
oh! no; the characters not to wade in the slime, 
unless they wore hip-boots, but only to navi- 
gate their frail craft on its iridescent surface 
in such fashion that the audience should expect 
to seejhem fall overboard at any moment. But 
something saves them. This is where the 
heart interest comes in. Then there w^as to be 
one Very Strono- Scene, which, as every .a very 

. STRONG 

schoolboy now knows, is all that a play needs, scene 
Bill said the Very Strong Scene was some 
stronger 'n his stomick, w^'ich it was li'ble ter 
buck jump, ef it was loaded with -any thin' 
stronger 'n tea thet lied b'en b'iled fer half an 
hour. He 'd see the writers plumb ter hell 
before he 'd go through four acts an' three 
very fine climixes holdin' his nose like the 
woods was full er polecats, an' breathin' the 
stink through his mouth. Ef he ke'ched one 



er them cunnin' little wood-pussies rubbin' up of wood- 

. . . , PUSSIES 

ag'in him, he 'd hev its hide off it an' nailed ter 
the side er the shack before it c'd bat an eye. 
He cal'ated it 'd look some prettier without 
even the clo'es it was born in. No clo'es was 
the on'y clo'es thet 'd fit it reel well. That 
settled that. 

A comedy of manners was voted to be out 



Iviii The Wilderness 

COMEDY OF ^^^ ^^^^ question, a large part of the equipment 

MANNERS q{ the modern actor being ignorance of com- 

edy and innocence of manners. Fosdick de- 
clared his belief that good manners were al- 
most as rare upon the stage as in the best Sun- 
day-newspaper society. Bill said that as he 
did n't know nuthin' erbout manners, he 
would n't set in no sich a game. Beatrix re- 
fused to appear in any play in which Bill 
would not feel at home, and added that, any- 
how, Bill's manners were too good for a com- 
edy of present-day manners. 

A DRAMA OF It was then suggested that the demi-monde 

' was a mine from which many dramatic gems 
had been taken, but in which, if you '11 watch 
the automobiles, many large and brilliant ones 
remained. Fosdick put his foot on that; and 
although he wore shoepacks at the time, he 
busted the idea. Until that moment the 
writers had thought him a man ; but this re- 
vealed him as the hopeless lay figure of a prig 
that he was. How pitiably inadequate is his 

A PITIFUL equipment for his part, is revealed in the 
fourth act, in which he presents the impossi- 
ble spectacle of a hero meekly holding up his 
hands because he fears that if he lowers them, 
he will be catching bullets on the fly. This 
weak-minded display of common sense pro- 



Introduction lix 



claims Fosclick's ignorance of the first princi- 
ples of stage heroics. He does not even know 
that no gun-fighter was ever yet quick enough 
on the draw to hold up a real stage hero, that 
in the drama only the villain is sufficiently in- 
telligent to know when the real thing has got 
the drop on him, and that the most popular of 
matinee idols could never survive the humilia- 
tion to which he submits as a matter of course. 
He could never qualify as a karnegero, al- 
though he would just love to wear the medal * }55f ji'li: 
modestly in his necktie, and to show to the 
reporters affidavits establishing his heroism. 
We were up against it. In each case it was 



* These medals take their name from that of the 
eminent person whose good money pays for them, and 
after whom most things are now named. You can't be 
_- a hero — that is a certified karnegero, without adequate 
proof of your heroism. The would-be hero and a num- 
ber of responsible persons must make affidavit to cir- 
cumstances which establish conclusively the applicant's 
heroism. And the standard is high : the affidavits must 
be good and strong. It is best to employ counsel fa- 
miliar with hero practice ; for it is humiliating to have 
one's just claims denied. No one likes to be told that 
he is no hero. The successful applicant is rewarded by 
receiving the medal, by a number of good press notices, 
for which a skilled press agent should be employed, and 
by having a fine capital K branded on his fagade. Thus 
the whole hero business has been standardized in the 
most satisfactory manner, and taken out of the realm 
of mere romance and fiction. Undoubtedly this is one 
of the greatest boons ever conferred upon mankind. 
Too often unaided humanity has tagged the wrong 
hero. 



PRECEPTS 
PLAYERS 



AND AMA- 



ev;d.n that the two others .ere ^ith the oh- 
.of "oSeT ;r :;n: , ^^- ^•^-e Peop,e 

'"<-tedthe°st:„7;:^~-^ 

ers;— ^ Precepts tor pJay- 

whoh^,:;;'rrh:t:r.'^^'"^^-^-- 

or:;o„;trCa:e"de^°"^'r"^^'^-' 
uses; and vnu .r. , ''^™^ ^°'" other 

used nitehClvV-ln ''"'■* P^'-'^-'"<^h, 

ofco„,„.r;t-t;^^';:;-- 

e^en have hrains ^''"'^^ P^^P'e 

deeper the fee „/ the , ' '''^' "■"'^- ^he 

^'--ds;a,:i?he rdtX^tr-^^ 
your being are those nf '''^P^'* '" 

"ot those^of th d ,ona?r TT ^°"^"^' 
suggested to his love hat 1 I Z^" ^^'^^ 

;-^ through, on cer:,,:re;to°t"f^"'''^ 
thme gates of Paradise "'"■^"- 



^ 



Introduction Ixi 



Real emotion is in your insicles : yon do n't 
turn handsprings. 

4. If the writer has not provided you with of°silIncI 
lines that seem to you worth while under the 
circumstances, say nothing. You may bust 

up the play, but you will save your self-respect. 
There may be more virtue, even more elo- 
quence, in silence than in all the things that 
some respectable people of ninety have said in 
all their lives, compressed into two minutes. 
We have been trained not to waste our wind. 

5. Take your time. If you 're soon enough, 
you '11 not be too late. To be too soon never 
does any good. 

6. Go on strike, if they cast you in a play Ir'^^ctI'^^ 
in which the slap-stick has a leading part. If 

we all went to college for thirty or forty years 
(a hundred for some), the face-makers and 
slap-stick artists would all be playing to empty 
benches in a better world, and they would n't 
get a hand. 

7. Remember that love-making is some dif- ^ng^nd*^" 
ferent from catch-as-catch-can wrestling. It wrestling 
seems so to us; but we are plain people. We 

bar the strangle hold. The love of upper 
Broadway, both on and off the stage, is an- 
other matter. We know nothing of these 
subtler things of life that are as familiar to 



Ixii The Wilderness 

leading play-makers, actors, and managers, as 
the clothes they owe their tailors for. Some 
folks are so foolish that they think even their 
minds are involved in their loving. Some 
have no minds. They are often good wres- 
tlers. 

8. Do n't try to measure the excellence of 
your performance in terms of foot-tons. The 
things you make your audience think you could 
do are likely to be more effective than the 
things you do. 

9. We '11 be satisfied if, and only if, we can 
keep our audience interested. Action is a 
good dog, but Interest is a better. If you can 
not make your stage character interesting, 
battle, murder, and sudden death, pistols and 
poison, dope and disease, atavism and adul- 
tery, and all the accepted aids to agony, will 
not put you in right. 

10. Unless your contribution to your part 
is far greater than the playwright's, you are 
not an actor. He supplies the words: it is 
your job to furnish, to create, the person- 
ality. 
THE ART OF II. Trv to listcu. It is more than half of 

LISTENING •: , 1 1 • 

conversation, and, properly done, is more 
than a quarter of good acting. .A cheerful 
listener may be welcome when a brilliant and 



Introduction Ixiii 



previous talker would be a bore. Unspoken 
flattery is one of the corner-stones of society. 

12. If you have any brains, use them. If 
the playwright or the stage-manager won't 

let you, hunt another job. * 

13. It is better fun to think about your 
lines, if you are anything but clothes, than to 
be wondering whether your make-up is right. 
It will also please the audience more. 

14. Play to the best part of your audience. 
It is ea-sier to make people accept what is too 
good for them than to persuade them that they 
like what they know is not good enough for 
them. A flattered intelligence is tamer than 
an insulted intelligence. 

IK. Never foreet that the best part of a the actor's 

BEST ALLY 

play should be enacted in the minds of the 
audience. There is a limit to your vocal and 
muscular activities : some things have no as- 
signable-limit. If you go to the limit in dic- 
tion, action, and shouting, you leave nothing 
to the imagination, and so lose your best ally. 

To complicate the situation further, Fos- a walking 

^ GENTLEMAN 

dick said, with a hardness in his eye that be- 
lied the soft weakness of the imitation stage 
hero that he is, that if any writer tried to 
make a walking gentleman out of him. with 
nothing in the world to do but to come on 



Ixiv The Wilderness ■ 

when e\'ery two-year-old in the audience knew 
he would come, and to go off when every 
rounder knew he would have to go, he would 
take that party over his knee, and fix him so 
that he would have to dine at a lunch-counter 
for a week. Fosdick said he could whittle a 
hetter man out of hasswood. He said he was 
a busy man. 

BEmG^A ^^ Beatrix said that, for her part, she would 

WOMAN (^Iq ^g gi^g lll^gd when the time came. Bill's 

habit of what she would flatter him by .calling 
thought, even his manner of giving expres- 
sion to it, was so woven into her nature that 
she could n't get shet of it. She did n't want to. 
She had never tried to be a perfect lady, and 
she was n't going to begin at her age. The 
job of being a woman kept her busy. 

RELIEF "'^^^^ seemed to excite Bill, who thereupon 

took up his parable to the effect that ef said 
party cast him fer sich a fool part ez ol' Comic 
Relief, they 'd be doin's prompt thet would n't 
be no ways comic, not fer some folks. 

AND^^^ Thus these well-meaning but clumsy people, 

rushing in where very few angels without the 
price have trodden lately, strove to butt down 
with their silly heads the pillars of the shrine 
of dramatic art, scantified by the heart's blood 
of loose women, dope fiends, reformed rakes, 



FOOLS 



Introduction Ixv 



and unfaithful wives, who work so hard 
nightly up and down Broadway, in plays burst- 
ing with heart interest, to show us ordinary 
mortals what life really is, and to bring' home 
to us those great moral lessons which they 
and their creators are so well qualified to 
teach. 

What was to be done? These three, with 
their crazy code, had barred every element es-^ 
sential to a play. Nothing remained but to 
turn them loose, and let them do their worst. 
That was done. This adaptation from the 
French is the result. Obviously it can't be 
a play.* 

* The designation "play" is used in the introduction, 
merely as a matter of convenience. But no writing 
which consistently violates the rules and the traditions 
of our best dramatic art can properly be called a play. 
Even the stage directions in the following pages are 
not couched in those terms to depart from which makes 
a writing not a play. Could the presumption of ig- 
norance further go? Bill and Beatrix, with the help of 
Fosdick, have made a hopeless mess of it. Imagine a 
spot-light actress's appearing in the first act before the 
audience has been prepared in the customary manner 
for her entrance. 



IMPORTANT NOTE 

Some people who are far from dull have found 
it difficult to imagine Beatrix and Bill in the en- 
vironment in which they are placed. It is but kind, 
therefore, to state the following facts, for the 
benefit of those who are either so clever as to knov.', 
or so dull as to suppose, that our friends could not 
have been where we find them : 

John Walton was a rich man, who -had suc- 
ceeded in large undertakings in the western coun- 
try. His interests embraced mines, railways, tim- 
ber lands; and probably cattle ranches. New York 
City is as yet the financial centre of this country, 
and in the not far distant past the West depended 
upon eastern capital. Such activities as those in 
which Walton had toiled and won his way are not 
independent of the financial centre. As a matter 
of fact, much of the capital associated with Wal- 
ton's had its home in New York City, and some 
of it even touched Boston. Men associated with 
him in business had the misfortune to live in the 
East. 

It happened, therefore., that his affairs sometimes 



Ixx 



The Wilderness 



been a potent factor in the elevation of the Amer- 
ican drama to its present proud eminence. We 
must find his excuse in the fact that he did not 
foresee that she would ever be cast for that part. 

Beatrix is now in Maine because, ( i ) applying- 
to the boys the ideas which her father applied to 
her, she has had the boys at school in Massachu- 
setts; (2) she does not want to be, as yet, in the 
region most intimately associated in her mind with 
the father whom she has not ceased to mourn; (3) 
she wishes not to lose sight of Herbert; (4) she 
has a super-constitutional right to be in any state 
to w^hich she can afford to buy a railway ticket ; (5) 
she has money enough to enable her to be where she 
wants to be, and to make her independent of the 
scene-painter; (6) she means to have her own way 
in this, as in some other things. 

As for Bill, if what follows does not make it 
clear that he will be found where Beatrix is, and 
why he will be found there, it is not the writers' 
fault. A very interesting dialogue between these 
two, which was nicely designed to save the reader 
from brain-fag,* and in which these and other 
obscure points were explained w^ith sufficient 
sprightliness, was ruthlessly cut by them. They 

* The compositor whose Monday morning take included 
the Important Note, had this "brain-fog" ; but for this chronic 
and sometimes congenital malady, even psycho-therapeutics 
has not discovered a remedy. 



Important Note Ixxi 

protested that they were iinal)le to deHver it in 
any but the most spiritless manner, and Betty per- 
sisted in yawning- in the middle of the most illu- 
minating historical and genealogical utterances that 
had been assigned to Bill. They were willing to 
present themselves; they refused to explain them- 
selves. 

Fosdick's presence at the summer hotel has also 
been a stumbling-block to the man from Missouri. 
Some people of unimpeachable taste have thought 
that he was n't in the picture. The most superficial 
study of the contemporaneous drama would con- 
vince these doubters that mere artistic necessity 
affords a sufficient reason for anyone's presence 
anywhere at any time. In Fosdick's case, however, 
there are other and more commonplace reasons. 

The w^idow of his paternal uncle, Ezra Q. Fos- 
dick, having an income sufficient for the indulgence 
of her tastes and the cultivation of her talents, 
finds occupation and recreation in the exploitation 
of several genteel maladies, which are her only 
defence against constitutional ennui. Somewhat to 
his discomfiture, she is fond of Robert Fosdick. 
Thinking that she needed his advice as to her in- 
vestment in the Four Flush Mine, she summoned 
him to the Maine coast, where, at the Bay Head 
Hotel, she was combating insomnia in a most in- 
teresting form. He meant to stay there only three 



Ixx 



The Wilderness 



been a potent factor in the elevation of the Amer- 
ican drama to its present proud eminence. We 
must find his excuse in the fact that he did not 
foresee that she would ever be cast for that part. 

Beatrix is now in Maine because, ( i ) applying- 
to the boys the ideas which her father applied to 
her, she has had the boys at school in Massachu- 
setts; (2) she does not want to be, as yet, in the 
region most intimately associated in her mind with 
the father whom she has not ceased to mourn; (3) 
she wishes not to lose sight of Herbert; (4) she 
has a super-constitutional right to be in any state 
to which she can afford to buy a railway ticket; (5) 
she has money enough to enable her to be where she 
wants to be, and to make her independent of the 
scene-painter; (6) she means to have her own way 
in this, as in some other things. 

As for Bill, if wiiat follows does not make it 
clear that he will be found where Beatrix is, and 
why he will be found there, it is not the writers' 
fault. A very interesting dialogue between these 
two, which was nicely designed to save the reader 
from brain-fag,* and in which these and other 
obscure points were explained w^ith sufficient 
sprightliness, was ruthlessly cut by them. They 

* The compositor whose Monday morning take included 
the Important Note, had this "hrain-fog" ; but for this chronic 
and sometimes congenital malady, even psycho-therapeutics 
has not discovered a remedy. 



Important Note Ixxi 

IHpprotested that they were unable to deHver it in 
" any but the most spiritless manner, and Betty per- 
sisted in yawning in the middle of the most illu- 
minating historical and genealogical utterances that 
had been assigned to Bill. They were willing to 
present themselves; they refused to explain them- 
selves. 

Fosdick's presence at the summer hotel has also 
been a stumbling-block to the man from Missouri. 
Some people of unimpeachable taste have thought 
that he was n't in the picture. The most superficial 
study of the contemporaneous drama would con- 
vince these doubters that m^re artistic necessity 
affords a sufificient reason for anyone's presence 
anywdiere at any time. In Fosdick's case, however, 
there are other and more commonplace reasons. 

The widow of his paternal uncle, Ezra Q. Fos- 
dick, having an income sufificient for the indulgence 
of her tastes and the cultivation of her talents, 
finds occupation and recreation in the exploitation 
of several genteel maladies, which are her only 
defence against constitutional ennui. Somewhat to 
his discomfiture, she is fond of Robert Fosdick. 
Thinking that she needed his advice as to her in- 
vestment in the Four Flush Mine, she summoned 
him to the Maine coast, where, at the Bay Head 
Hotel, she was combating insomnia in a most in- 
teresting form. He meant to stay there only three 



Ixxii The Wilderness 

days. But after he had dictated a number of let- 
ters, he decided that the work which he had un- , 
derway could be done best in the invigorating \ 
air in the immediate vicinity of Farewell Be i\ 
Eight days after his arrival his Aunt Rachel wa j 
driven to the mountains by the recurrence of her 
hay fever, which was perhaps the choicest piece in 
her collection. 

Further explanations are refused. If playwrights 
were compelled to explain reasonably all the ab- 
surdities, the incongruities, the improbabilities, the 
inconsistencies, and the impossibilities of their 
plays, the task would exhaust their ingenuity, they 
would not have any invention left for serious work, 
and we should have no more drama. If you want 
to enjoy a play, you must accept it. It is best to 
leave your critical and analytical faculties at home, 
in the ice-box. 



THE WILDERNESS 
AN AMERICAN PLAY 



PERSONS IN THE PLAY 

The Spirit of John Walton. 

Beatrix Walton, daughter of John Walton. 

Bill Herrold. 

Robert Fosdick. 

Herbert Walton, son of John Walton. 

Jack Walton ) j- t i ur i^ 

younger sons of John Walton, 



Dick Walton 

F. Bosworth Masterson. 

Red McShane. 

Mrs. Thomas Y. Davis. 

ACT I. 

Boat-float on the shore of the Waltons' island on 
the coast of Maine. 

ACT 11. 

Office of the Bay head Hotel on the shore of Fare- 
well Bay on the coast of Maine. 

ACTS III, IV., V. 

On the shore of Farewell Bay. 

I 



f 



THE WILDERNESS 



ACT I. 

[The hoat-iioat on the shore of the Walt oris' 
island on the coast of Maine. The season is mid- 
summer. On the float lie a dory, resting on its bot- 
tom, and a canvas canoe, bottom up. Tzvo ronf-boats 
float alongside. Oars, paddles, lobster-pots, and 
boat-gear are disposed upon the float, in a more or 
less orderly fashion. The shore of the island, zvith 
zMch the float is connected by a gang-plank ivipi a 
hand-rail on each side, is rocky and n^ooded zvith 
birch, pine, spruce, and hemlock trees. The similar 
shores of points, and of other islands, zvith channels 
and reaches betiveen, are seen in the middle distance 
and beyond, and far on the horizon are misty blue 
mountains. Upon the further side of the float. Bill 
Herrold kneels, steadying zt'ith both hands a birch- 
bark canoe, in the bozv of zMch Beatrix Walton 
kneels. ' Upon the float beside her lies the bozv pad- 
dle, its blade still zuet. The stern paddle lies by Bill. 

3 



The Wilderness 



She rises and steps lightly front the canoe, without 
assistance. She zi'cars a plain, brozvn, soft felt hat, 
zcifhout adornment, gray flannel shirt, a brozcn silk 
neckerchief, an old leather belt, brozvn khaki skirt, 
the hem of zvhich is at a point half zmy betzjueen 
knee and ankle, gray woollen stockings, and plain, 
unbeaded moccasins. Bill is not dressed at all, — 
that is, he is garbed after the manner of his kind. 
He also wears moccasins, or shoepacks. ■ Each of 
them taking an end of the canoe, they lift it, drip- 
ping, to the float, and set it dozvn upon its bottom. 
Bill takes an old zmistcoat from the stern of the 
canoe, where he has been^ kneeling upon it, zvhile 
Beatrix lifts and throzvs upon the float the small 
canvas cushion upon which she has been kneeling.^ 

Beatrix [feeling the side of the canoe]. The 
sun will be hot to-day, Bill. This gum is soft now. 
You had better tote the birch up into the shade. 

[Bill tosses the canoe upon his shoulders, walks 
up the gang-plank, and disappears in the woods. He 
then returns. In the mean time, Beatrix has been 
stretching and zvorking her arms, legs^ and fingers, 
to take the stiffness out of them.] 

Beatrix. That was something like old times, 
Bill. We rather made her smoke the last three or 
four miles. We left the boys hull down. They can 
almost hold us now for a mile in the light canoe ; 
but when it comes to real work, they ain't in it with 



Act I 5 

us old hands yet. Ouch! I 've got a cramp in that 
forearm: I told you you were holding me too long 
on the left side. 

[She holds out her right arm, the fingers con- 
tracted with cramp. Bill turns up her sleeve, and 
rubs, pinches, and slaps her forearm with, muck 
vigor, her fingers relaxing under this treatment.'] 

^Beatrix. I wish you would n!t chatter so. You 
make rational conversation quite impossible. 

[Bill sits upon the gunzmle of the dory, takes 
pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket, and pre- 
pares for a smoke, Beatrix standing and gazing 
dreamily into the distance. When his pipe is ready. 
Bill takes a sulphur match from his hat-band. 
Beatrix goes to him, takes the match, lights it man- 
fashion, and holds it zvhile he lights his pipe.] 

Beatrix. What 's the matter with you, anyway? 

Bill. Nuthin'. * 

Beatrix. Perhaps you think I da n't know every- 
thing that goes on in the agglomeration of matter 
which I suppose you call your brain. You 've got 
an uncommon fine article of grouch because of what 
I said to you a spell. back. But you see, Bill, I 'm 
bound to break out of the corral. I can't help it: 
I 'm uneasy. I must go, — anywhere, over yonder, 
beyond something. What kind of a country do you 
suppose there is, now, the far side er them mount- 
ings? I want to see things, — and things. You 



The Wilderness 



know that I can find my way in the tall timber ; and 
I guess you know that when John Walton's daugh- 
ter has made up her mind, she 's going to come 
pretty near having her own w^ay. 

[She sits on the gunzmle of the dory.] 

Bill [plaintiz'ely, to an imaginary auditor]. 
Ain't it ridic'lous? Here 's this ornery leetle gal, 
thet I 've dry-nussed ever sence she wa' n't no big- 
ger 'n my gun [Feeling for the gun that is not 
there.] I hed her so 's she 'd eat outer my hand. An' 
now she goes plumb locoed. An' w'at kin I do? My 
nerve is busted ; I 'm gittin' old an' wore out. I 
do n't doubt but w'at a broken-down pack mule 
could heave me over his head. I s'pose she calls it 
a declaration er inerpendence. [To Beatrix.] 
I calls it downright, damn foolishness. 

Beatrix. You 've got a touch of the sun; or per- 
haps you are only in your dotage. I do n't know, 
though, that you were ever a master hand to read 
the mind of a woman. 

Bill. I dunno. I dunno. Ye 're a sight more 
like yer dad then ever any of the boys '11 be. 

Beatrix. Am I really so much like father? 

Bill [angrily]. W'y, Gal, do ye s'pose ef ye 
hed n't er b'en, I 'd 've turned myself inter a lop- 
eared sheep dawg an' follered ye ter thisyer gawd- 
fersaken kentry, w'ere all the water 's alkaline 



Act 1 



[Waving his hand toivard the zmitcr.'\, an' a man 
can't take a drink without stickin' his elber inter 
another feller's eye? Like him! 

Beatrix. But, Bill, you do n't drink. 

Bill. Not w'en I 'm on my job, I do n't; an' 
you ain't give me a minute's rest ner peace fer nigh 
outer three year now. I guess it 's erbout time fer 
me ter pull my freight. The job hez got so ez ter be 
too big fer me. I ain't no more use here. 

^Beatrix [turning aside and speaking zvith much 
miotion^. We 've b'en on the trail tergether fer 
quite some years, — you an' me. I hed hoped ye 
might be with me at the end of it. \_A pause. She 
turns to him, and speaks with chastened sadness.] 
I have had a premonition of this. For some days 
your innumerable good points have been much in 
my mind, and something that I feared was an obit- 
uary notice has been taking shape in my head. 
There is some relief in discovering that it must have 
been a letter of recommendation. [Rising and 
walking tozvard the gang-plank.] I '11 go up and re- 
duce it to typewriting, so that your departure may 
not be delayed. [She walks up the gang-plank, 
turns before reaching the upper end of it, comes 
part zmy dozim the plank, and sits upon one of the 
hand-rails.] Perhaps I can give you an idea of 
what I think of saying. I should like your approval. 



8 The Wilderness 

[Her face assumes a thoughtful expression, and her 
hrozv becomes slightly puckered.'] Something like 
this :— 

To Whom it may Concern : 

Mr. WilHam Herrold [That 's you, Bill.] has 
been in my service for eighteen years in the capacity 
of nursery governess to a girl whose age has varied 
constantly during that time. He has given entire 
satisfaction, — to himself; and leaves my employ- 
ment now only — only because he has imparted to 
his youthful and engaging charge (me, Bill) — 
youthful charge, all that he knows, and many other 
useful and agreeable accomplishments. Under his 
able, although not always humane, — tutelage, • she 
has learned to follow a trail, blazed or unblazed ; to 
ride almost anything on three or four fegs, except — 
except a grand piano; to shoot very melodiously 
upon several kinds of firearms; to walk further and 
pack more than any but the most brutal would — ■ 
would ever require of an unarmed girl ; to remember 
that the panic in the human head seldom communi- 
cates itself to the compass — except in the season of 
blue moons; to tell by the use of the unaided human 
eye (and brain) which w^ay is up-stream; to go 
softly, carry a big stick, and keep to the right on a 
trail that is crowded with grizzly bears; never to 
get out and walk when taking a canoe down white 



Act I 9 

water; to keep her matches dry; to catch, clean, cook, 
and eat muskrats, mushrooms, beetles, black flies, 
plug tobacco, and the other delicacies of the wilder- 
ness ; to guard the point of the jaw ; and otherwise 
to comport herself in a refined and ladylike manner. 
[Bill, I 'm shore gittin' some interested in this.] 

Perhaps Mr. Herrold's most graceful accomplish- 
ment is drawing. He has been recognized as a 
leading exponent of this branch of the graphic art 
by the critics of the ranches and mining camps of 
California, Wyoming, and Arizona. The quickness 
and sureness of his touch have been much admired, 
and in this particular he has not been excelled by 
any of his contemporaries. In his earlier days — in 
his earlier days he participated in many competi- 
tions, — and always with success. He is living evi- 
dence of this. It is believed, such is the sensitive- 
ness of his nature, that he could not have survived 
failure. ^ His work has been frequently exhibited ; 
and he has always been held in such respect by hang- 
ing committees that he has never been skied. [I 
do n't mean that, Bill.] 

At one time he gave great promise as a painter 
in monochrome; but the art emporiums of New 
Mexico, where he was then pursuing, and frequently 
overtaking, his studies, were unable to supply the 
voracious demands of his palette. It is known, how- 
ever, that two of these studies in his earlier manner 



lo The Wilderness 

were hung on the Hne in the art gallery at Toad 
Valley. It is understood that they are now buried 
in one of the smaller collections of the great South- 
west, but, it is feared, not in a good state of preser- 
vation. 

Mr. Herrold's age is anywhere from five to fifty- 
five years. He is often sober, industrious, if well 
bossed by a person of iron will and perfect indif- 
ference to danger, as honest as — he knows how to 
be, and fully competent for any job — job that is 
well within his capacity. His only failings are an 
entire lack of sense of humor, and a constant ten- 
dency to fits of peevishness, in which, however, he 
seldom kills anyone, unless he forgets himself. 

I can not, therefore, recommend him too highly 
[The fine ambiguity of this is probably lost on you.] 
— too highly, as — as companion to a nervous invalid, 
or as preceptor to any healthy and thoroughly cour- 
ageous child whose fighting weight is not less than 
a hundred and ninety pounds, and who — and who 
carries a knockout punch in either hand. 

There, Bill, I feel better already. I knew there 
was something inside of me trying to work out. Of 
course, that 's just a rough draft. But something 
along those lines ought to insure you pretty con- 
stant occupation in the more peaceful parts of Mas- 
sachusetts or Rhode Island. 



Act I II 

[During this recital, Bill has sat smoking stol- 
idly: he laughs hut tzvice, and does not smile, during 
our acquaintance imth him. Beatrix goes to him, 
seizes him by the collar with both hands, and shakes 
him roughly.] 

Beatrix. Now, you ornery ol' grizzly, I calls 
yer bluff. Wen ye goin' ? 

Bill. Now, Betty Gal, ye knows mighty well 
thet w'en yer dad passed in- his checks, erway out 
nigh ter the head waters er the Yaller Gravel, with 
his head a-layin' on my knee, I promised him I 'd 
never let no harm come nigh ye, not ef I c'd help it. 

Beatrix. I know it, Bill, dear. 

[She kisses him softly upon the forehead, and 
then zmlks slozdy up the gang-plank. Bill surrepti- 
tiously puts one hand upon the spot that she has 
kissed, and then looks reverently at the hand. As 
she ncars the upper end of the plank, he speaks.] 

Bill [saz^agely] . Wen ye goin' ? 

Beatrix [turning to face Bill]. On Thurs- 
day. I 've got everything ready. You know what 
I mean to do with the boys. You '11 stay here and 
hold down the ranch until you hear from me. [She 
turns shoreward.] 

Bill [partly aside]. Like hell, I will. 

Beatrix ^ [turning and coming tozvard him]. 
What ? I thougfht I heard a kinder foolish noise. 



T2 The Wilderness 

Bill. Niithin'. I was talkin' in my sleep. It 's 
growed on me. It 's got so now I talk in my sleep 
sometimes w'en I 'm awake. 

Beatrix. I tell you. Bill, it is n't fair. Father 
began without a cent, and fought his way up. 
He saw life. And here am I, with all the 
other and better things that he gave me, as you 
never tire of telling me, and as I never tire of hear- 
ing, weighed down by a pile of silly money. But I 
will not be held down. I 'm going up against the 
world for a while. I 'm going to see that country 
over beyond the mountains. I 'm going to put to 
practical use some of the things that Father made 
me learn, and learn well, — some of the things I used 
to do for him. He had to earn his living. I 'm go- 
ing to see whether I can earn my living, or whether 
I 'm a mere 

[Jack and Dick come dozvn the gang-plank. 
They are dressed rather carelessly in trousers and 
flannel shirts of neutral tints, zmth old felt hats and 
moccasins. Their gray zvoollen socks are drazim up 
over their trousers. They carry paddles.] 

Bill. Good evenin'. *Ef I was you, I 'd hev one 
er these yere leetle mechanical polecats put inter my 
canoe, so 's I c'd keep up with the gals. 

Jack. We got hung up on the Shark's Fin, and 
the darn old canoe got to leaking so that we had 
to leave her on the far side of the island. 



Act I 13 

Beatrix [at temp ting to embrace the fzi^o boys]. 
My boys, my boys! [Jack avoids her, and she em- 
braces Dick, zvho hugs her affectionately.'] Saved, 
saved from a watery sepulchre ! [ With one arm 
about Dick, she addresses Bill.] Do you suppose 
I can ever teach these innocent darlings to find their 
way about alone? D 'ye figger they c'd f oiler the 
trairerlong the right er way from White Water ter 
Bull Pup Sidin', ef they was tethered ter the slow 
freight ? 

Bill. They might : they might, on a clear day, — 
ef the rail's was w^hitewashed good, — an' the wind 
did n't blow so 's ter take their mind off the blazes. 

Beatrix. I thought they had the bearings of 
that reef down pat. I 've shown them on the water, 
and I 've shown them on the chart; and if they 've 
seen me do it once, they 've seen me go clear of the 
easterly end of the Shark's Fin by the thickness of 
the skin of a birch-bark a hundred and four times. 
[Releasing Dick, and addressing the boys unth sad 
precision of utterance.] You can do it every time, 
at this stage of the tide, on the blasted pine ranging 
with the sou' westerly corner of the cook shack until 
you just open the point of Seal Pup Island. Then 

you Oh! what "s the use? You children ought 

to be where you would have nice fat policemen to 
carry you over the crossings. Then you could 
travel without having to use your brains. 



14 The Wilderness 

Jack [with great dignity]. That will be about 
all of that, Beatrix. I 've something to say to you. 

Beatrix [taking shelter behind. Bill]. Please 
do n't begin by scaring me to death. 

Jack. I wish to know 

Bill. Haw! haw! haw! He wishes some ter 
know. 

Beatrix. Quit your yapping, Bill. I do n't like 
the poor child's looks. I fear his health is suffer- 
ing. 

Bill. He does look reel feverish. 

Jack. What 's all this rot you 've been talking to 
Dick? He says you 've got it all framed up to herd 
us into a summer camp school with a bunch of pale- 
faces that probably could n't get across Central 
Park without a guide. 

Beatrix [z'ery sweetly]. Or go clear of the 
Shark's Fin without a tow line from their sister's 
canoe. [Pompously.] Yes, John, my affairs com- 
pel me to absent myself for a considerable period 
'from that family of which, until this fatal moment, 
I have been permitted to consider myself at least the 
titular head. While I do this with much regret, as 
you can understand, I am not at all certain that 
the incidental advantages of the plan that I have 
perfected with the expenditure of many hours of 
anxious thought, will not far more than outweigh 
the inevitable pain which must attend even the tem- 



Act I 15 

porary sundering of those domestic ties which are 
recognized as sacred by all the nations of the earth 
which have the smallest pretension to civilization. 

For myself 

Jack. I won't stand for it. It 's the wrong dope. 
You want to guess again. I 'm getting to be a 
man. Yon can't treat me like a mommer's darling. 
I '11 appeal to Herbert. 

Dick [looking for a line of retreat, and edging 
toward the gang-plank, a symptom zMch leads Bill 
to saunter over to the lozver end of the 'plank, n'here 
he stands]. That 's the stuff, Jack. Stick to it. 
I 'm right with you. 

Beatrix [su'eetly, to Dick]. You 're right with 
him ? 

Dick. Sure. 

Beatrix [more szveetly]. You want to be right 
with brother, do n't you ? 
Dick [doubtfully]. Yes. 

Beatrix. Fine. We '11 try to fix it that way. 
[To Jack.] Did you ever notice that Herbert had 
his bridle on me? You do n't even know where he is, 

somewhere along the coast, in someone's steam 

yacht, learning from willing teachers how to spend 
the money that he never worked for. Herbert had 
got too far before I found myself. But I '11 make 
men of you two, if I have to cripple you all up to 
do it. This family conclave is drawing to a close. 



The Wilderness 



To me, it is, indeed, a sad occasion. It is a terrible 
thing for one who has enjoyed power which may 
justly be described as autocratic, to feel that the 
reins — no, the sceptre is slipping from his nerve- 
less grasp, that his brief term of glory is verging to 
its close. [Her voice shaking with eniotioiL] John, 
my lad, you have spoken brave w^ords. 

[During this harangue, the boys have drawn to- 
gether, as if for mutual protection.] 

Dick [aside to Jack]. You want to look out 
-for her when she talks like that. 

Beatrix. I have read in the Bible, — or was it in 
Shakespeare ? — that words are good when backed by 
deeds, and only so. We have had the words, — fine 
words, grand words. [Bearing down threateningly 
upon Jack.] We will now proceed to have doings. 

Jack [backing azvay as Beatrix advances]. You 
let me be. I do n't want to have to hit a girl. 

[He looks desperately toward the gang-plank, 
zi'hich he sees covered by Bill. Beatrix draws him 
with a feint, and he lunges at her, not seeming to 
know whether he means to strike or to seize her. 
She grasps with both hands the wrist of his ex- 
tended arm, passes his arm over her shoulder, turns 
her back to him, and, leaning quickly forward, 
throws hintj with a "flying mare," into the water. 
Dick tries to dodge up the gang-plank, but is caught 
and held by Bill. As Beatrix advances slowly 



Act I 17 

■upon him, she signals to Bill^ who then lets Dick 
slip from his grasp. As she rushes upon him, Dick 
dives from the float.] 

Beatrix. You are sure the most harmless look- 
ing pair of bad men I ever saw. I do n't believe 
you '11 even frighten the cunners. Swim ashore, 
now, and run up to the shack. Sister will be up in 
a minute to tell you what she has decided to do with 
you. That was good team work, Bill. We do have 
fun with the kids. [With real feeling.] I hate to 
leave the little dears. 



END OF act I 



1 8 The Wilderness 



11 

1 1; 



ACT IT 

[Office of the Bay head Hotel on the shore of 
Farewell Bay on the coast of Maine. The hotel is 
obviously a large zi'ooden structure, with all the 
beauty and dignity which commonly characterize the 
architecture of such havens of rest. A zvide door, 
standing open at the back, gives on a zvide piazza, 
beyond zvhich the ground slopes sharply to the shore 
of the bay. The rugged zvesterly shore of the bay 
is seen stretching azmy to the southzvard. It is 
zuooded, and runs out to a bold point, zvith a light*, 
house on the end. The office is a thoroughfare, with 
an entrance on each side. At the left and near the 
back is the desk of the clerk, zvhere that functionary 
and his assistant are seen from time to time busy 
zvith their labors. During the act people pass 
through the office, sometimes stopping to speak zvith 
oneanother or zmth the clerk. What they say is 
interesting, but must be inaudible to the audience. 
If any of them are very tired, they may sit for a 
few minutes in the chairs zvhich stand about in rich 
profusion.' A^o upholstery is visible to the naked 
eye. The only adornments are a few colored maps, 
two or three coast survey charts, and some steam- 



Act II 19 

boat posters, displayed upon the zvalls. On the right 
and near the front is a door, npon vjhich is the leg- 
end ''STENOGRAPHY AND TYPEWRITINGS 
Near this door stands a small flat-top desk. Mrs. 
Davis sweeps through the office. As she passes 
near this door, the door opens, and Beatrix 
emerges. '\ 

Beatrix. Mrs. Davis, may I speak with you a 
moment ? 

Mrs. Davis. W'y cert'nly, Miss Wilber. 

Beatrix. Your little boy tells me you say that I 
am rich. What does that mean ? 

Mrs. Davis. Well, now, I had n't intended to 
say a word to anyone. I thought 'f I 'd discovered 
a secret, I ought to keep it to muself. I on'y gave z. 
hint to dear little. Neddie, because I thought he 
might annoy you with his high spurits, 'f he 
thought you was on'y a common typewriter. 

Beatrix. Please tell me what you think you 
have discovered. 

Mrs. Davis. Well, I ain't perf'ctly cert'n; but 
two years ago I saw Beatrix Walton, the great heir- 
ess, in Noo-York, an' I think you 're her. 

Beatrix. You flatter me. 

Mrs. Davis. No : I do n't think so. Of course, 
your secret is quite safe with me. You 're too 
pretty, mu dear, to be doin' this. But I 'm glad to 
see you 're wise enough to do your business with 



20 The Wilderness 

the men out here. You ought to have a chaperone. 
llien you c'd join in the gay life here, and take 'the 
position that — that 

Beatrix. That my wealth would entitle me to, 
— supposing me to be Beatrix Walton. Let us have 
an understanding. If I am not Miss Walton, you 
are only wasting your time, and 

Mrs. Davis. Oh ! but, mu dear 

Beatrix. Pardon me, Mrs. Davis. I sought 
this interview, because I had something to say to 
you. I find it difficult to make myself quite clear 
to one who is adept in the graceful art of talking 
and listening at the same time. As it is my idea 
that I am seeking to convey, perhaps you willjfii 
me put it in my own way. 

Mrs. Davis. Certunly: w'y, of course. I 
on'y 

Beatrix. Mrs. Davis, if I am not Miss Walton, 
you are wasting your time, and would only make 
yourself ridiculous by imparting your suspicions to 
others. If I am Miss Walton, it is quite evident 
that I do not wish my identity to be known, and 
that anyone revealing it without warrant would 
not be in the good graces of the great heiress,— 
might even incur her enmity. 

Mrs. Davis. I understand perfuctly. You know 
you can rely on my discretion. 

Beatrix. I know nothing about you. If I am 



Act II 21 

Miss Walton, of course I can not prove to you that 
I am not. If I am not Miss Walton, I am a poor 
typewriter, who is too much flattered to be in a 
hurry to correct your mistake. Vou must excuse 
me. I have work to do. 

[Beatrix passes oiif through the door of her 
room.] 

Mrs. Davis. I wish I was perf'ctly sure. But I 
guess there ain't much doubt. 

[Mrs. Davis goes out by door at back. Fos- 
DicK enters, and knocks at the door of Beatrix's 
room. She opens the door, and comes out, zidth 
pencil and note-book in hand.] 

Beatrix. Good morning, Mr. Fosdick. 

FosDiCK. Good mohiing. Miss Wilber. 

[Beatrix sits at her desk, opens her note-book, 
and prepares to zvrite.] 

Fosdick [standing], better to Mr. Morton. 
You have his name and address. \^He dictates rap- 
idly and zvith little hesitation.] Dear sir, Your let- 
ter of the sixteenth instant reaches me this morn- 
ing. I can not see that another conference now is 
necessary or even desirable. It will take me at 
least a week to finish my report, to which I am 
giving all the time possible. My field notes are 
voluminous, and here and there, because of the 
roughness of the country and of the weather in 
which they are made, hard to decipher. I can not 



;1 



22 The Wilderness 

answer very definitely your inquiry about young* i 
IMasterson. I only remember hearing that his gen 
eral reputation is that of a professional little brother 
of the rich, with all that that implies as to brains and 
principles, and that the paltry allowance of ten 
thousand dollars, made him by a rich father, hardly 
suffices for his simple needs. Whether he can in- 
fluence English capital, as you suggest, through his 
noble brother-in-law, I do not know. You will un- 
derstand that I am not prepared to advise you as to 
the wisdom of your associating him w^ith you in" 
your Catamount Mountain enterprise. Yours very 
truly, I '11 be back for that in ten minutes. 

[FosDicK goes out, Beatrix enters her room. 
Mrs. Davis and Masterson stroll in by door at 
back.] 

Mrs. Davis. So you have n't made much prog- 
ress? 

Masterson. No. Perhaps it 's my own fault. 
The girl is too damned ugly. Now% what 's the 
meaning of your telegram? Why did you order 
me here? 

Mrs. Davis. Mu dear boy, do n't say that, jus' 
because I 've lent you a few thousan'. 

Masterson. Well, why did you request me to 
attend you here? 

Mrs. Davis. Because I think we 've got the reel 



Act II 23 

thing this time, — wealth, distinction, beauty. The 
other one is n't a circumstance. 

Masterson [sitting dozm]. That sounds rather 
good. What 's the name? 

Mrs. Davis [sitting dozvn]. Now, look a-here, 
Freddie, this is so good I wan' to be sure we under- 
stan' this thing. I have n't made any breaks, so far. 
I 'm at this hotel because there are some people here 
that it may be worth w'ile to know jus' at first, an' 
none that '11 bother me in the least, 'f I reelly get 
started. I mus' keep away from the reelly smart 
people till we 're ready. 

Masterson. That 's right enough. You 
could n't touch them without help, or not without a 
campaign that I rather think you 're not up to. 

Mrs. Davis. Now, you 're a man of the world. 
Let 's take all the how-d'ye-do, an' after-you, an' 
not-at-all sort of thing fer granted. Let 's be plain. 
You need money : you 've got to have it. I wan' to 
be a figger in reel Noo York society. I 've got the 
money, — plenty of it. Mr. D. '11 let me have 
all I want fer this. All he c'n do is to get it : he 's 
fergott'n how to spend it. With your help, I c'n 
get w'at I want without havin' to wait too long. 
Without it, I prob'ly can't get it at all. You 're as 
big a swell as any of 'em ; an' your sister, the duch- 
ess, — w'en she comes over nex' winter, can soon 



24 The Wilderness 

be the makin' of me, with your help. You say, an' 
I beHeve, from w'at I 've heard, that she '11 do it, 'f i 
you say so. The money you 've got to have you \ 
can't get anyw'eres else, or cert'nly not half as easy -*! 
as you can from me. I 've advanced you twenty 
thousan', w'ich you say is about gone. I '11 give you 
a check fer ten tomorrer. Wen you've had a hun- 
dred thousan' from me, my part of the bargain is 
complete. 

Masterson. Oh! if you put it, that way, yes. j 
Yes; that 's it. - . 1 

Mrs. Davis. An' if you marry a forchoone 
within two years of the first of las' month, I 've 
done my part without any more paymunts, because 
without my money you could n't even go w'ere 
you 'd see an heiress. 

Masterson. Yes. Oh ! I agree. That 's what it 
amounts to. 

Mrs. Davis. Now see how I trust you. The 
forchoone is Beatrix Walton. I 've got nuthin' 
but your bare word. 

Masterson. What! that wild girl? I 've un- 
derstood that she knew no one east of Cheyenne, 
that she was more of an Indian squaw than 
a white woman, and that when she was in the East 
she lived in a wigwam somewhere in the woods, 
and ate nothing but roots and raw fish. I 'd rather 
given her up as quite impossible. There are some 



Act II 25 

things a gentleman can't do. But she is rich. Old 
Walton certainly gathered in the shekels. The best 
line I 've been able to get on her makes her about 
^ve million. T suppose she is as good as anything 
in sight just now. 

Mrs. Davis. Do n't you worry: even you 
would n't be ashamed of her. I 've heard her 
quoted as high as twelve. Well, I 've been able to 
put this girl under obligation to me, an' she reco'- 
nizes it. It 's jus' possible she 's comin' here soon. 
I '11 say she's pretty cert'n to be here soon ; an' I 'm 
the on'y person in this part of the world that could 
intredoose you to her. I heard from her on'y this 
mornin', an' I will be in constant communication 
with her. I can't tell you all I know, but I advise you 
to stay here three or four days, anyway. She might 
be here as soon as that. You '11 find it dull enough. 
Of course, there are some pretty girls. They 're all 
off on picnics an' things now. By the way, about 
the prettiest girl here is the hotel stenographer. 
She 's quite the lady, an' has n't shown any int'rust 
in the men. You might be poHte to her. But be care- 
ful. I know w'at a gay, reckless feller you are; 
an' that won't do with her. Be reel nice to her. 
Come, an' let me show you your way about. Your 
room is all attended to, an' one fer your man nex' 
to it. They have n't got any reg'lar servants' quar- 
ters. 



26 The Wilderness \ 



[Mrs. Davis and Masterson stroll out by door\ 
at back. Fosdick comes in. He knocks a 
Beatrix's door. She enters, and hands him his let 
ter with an envelope stamped and addressed. H 
sits at the desk to sign the letter. As he rises, afte 
signing, folding, and sealing the letter, she speaks.] 

Beatrix. You were wondering about youl 
stamps. [Looking at her note-book.] You have 
thirty-seven of the tw-o hundred left. 

Fosdick. I 've written a lot of letters, have n'f 
I? 

Beatrix [zmth some surprise]. Why, yes. 

Fosdick. But then, we 've sent off some rather 
heavy reports and things like that. 

Beatrix [about to enter her room]. Oh! yes. 

Fosdick. Miss Wilber, you seemed surprised at 
an obvious statement of mine a moment ago. 

Beatrix. I know I did. I did not mean to be 
rude. 

Fosdick. You were not rude. You know why 
you were surprised ? 

Beatrix. Why, of course. 

Fosdick. Why? You do n't mind telling me? 

Beatrix. No, although I do n't see what you 
are driving at. It was because, although I have 
worked for you almost daily for three weeks, that 
was the first thing you had said to me not strictly in 
the line of business. 



Act II 27 

FosDiCK. You have noticed that ? 
r. Beatrix. Honestly, I do n't think I had. But 
when you did step just outside that Hne, it gave me 
a sort of a Httle shock. 

FosDicK. And now I 'm over the line with both 
feet. 

Beatrix. Mr. Fosdick, I have work to do. 

[She puts her hand upon the knob of her door.] 

Fosdick. Give me two minutes. I won' t let 
you begin by misunderstanding me. 

Beatrix. Is n't the word a little large ? 

Fosdick. Because I used a bit of slang, you be- 
gan [I hope I do n't flatter myself by saying be- 
gan.] to have your doubts? 

Beatrix. Slang? Oh! both feet. No, no. 
[She laughs, taking her hand from the knob of the 
door.] You should hear the boys, — the office boys. 

Fosdick. Good. Now, you never worked for 
any man a quarter as much as you have for me 
without having an appreciable amount of talk with 
him that was less rigidly confined within the limits 
of business than all our talk has been. 

Beatrix. Suppose that is so, what of it? 

Fosdick. Your definition of a gentleman is 
good enough for me. I like Thackeray's, but 

Beatrix. Thackeray's is mine. 

Fosdick. Then you '11 not misunderstand my 
asking you to give me in a lump the non-business 



28 The Wilderness 

talk I have been saving up until I have a credit 
balance of about two hours, and that 's at the rate 
of only five minutes a day. 

Beatrix. You are ingenious, — perhaps too in- 
genious. Have you been practising this curious 
system of temporal bookkeeping from the first? 

FosDicK. No. For the first week or so, it was 
entirely out of respect to your attitude. Then this 
idea did occur to me. And now, can't you give me 
my balance outside of business hours? 

Beatrix. I hardly think so. Not that I have 
any particular objection to talking with you. But 
there are reasons why I want to make my life here 
as colorless as possible. 

FosDicK. Colorless ? 

Beatrix. Yes, and particularly not tinged with 
the nauseating color of the petty gossip that runs 
riot in this place. The air here hums with the 
ceaseless vibration of many tongues. What they 
say, and what their owners, or those w^ho are owned 
by them, think, matters to me, essentially, as little 
as the social and intellectual activities of the no- 
see-ums on the beach. But I have seen times when 
I was mighty careful not to stir up the no-see-ums. 
This, as the boys wt)uld say, is one of them times. 

[She turns to the door, and puts her hand on 
the knob.] 

FosDicK. You are from the West. [Beatrix 



Act II 29 

pauses, with her hand on the door-knob.] Some- 
times, when I have been dictating to you about the 
West, I have been unable not to see that your heart 
was in that country. [She turns tozcard him, tak- 
ing her hand from the door-knob.] I 've seen your 
eyes glisten — Forgive me : I have not meant to spy 
upon you. You were there before me. Could I — 
I am confessing all my sins. Sometimes your eyes 
grew moist, particularly when you heard certain 
names ; and I have affected to hesitate and stumble, 
because it seemed to me that your spirit was out 
there in the big stillness which is never silent. I 
know it, too. Here is my worst offence. Some- 
times,- when I w^as doubtful whether you had met 
an old friend, I tried the name a second time : I 
did not often have to try a third. Here are some 
of -those that I am sure of. [Taking a memoran- 
dum from his letter-case.] Shall I read them? 

Beatrix. I do n't know. Yes. 

FosDicK. One Pan Creek. Crutches Pass. 
Bitter Water Pond. Three Cache Carry. White 
Water. Bull Pup Siding. Now we are getting 
down to civilization. Led Horse Pass. Big Wind 
Gulch. Quick Water Ford. And there are others 
that I meant to try. Big Pine Canyon. Marmot 
Ridge. The Big Elk Trail. The Yellow Gravel. 
The Low 

[Beatrix passes quickly into her room. Fos- 



30 The Wilderness 

DICK walks slozvly out. Mrs. Davis and Masterson 
stroll in.] 

Mrs. Davis. So that 's all there is to the place. 
Freddie. I 'm goin' upstairs to mu poor boy. He 's 
in bed. I think he mus' 've et somethin' that did n't 
agree with him. [She goes out.'] 

Masterson. ''Et something that did n't agree 
with him." If he ate as many things as he used to, 
they did n't agree with oneanother. 

[Noticing the sign on the door of Beatrixes 
room, he goes to the door and opens it. Beatrix 
comes forzvard, and stands in the door.] 

Masterson. Are you the typist? 

Beatrix. The ? 

Masterson. Typist. That 's what they call 'em 
in England.' 

Beatrix. No: I am only a plain American 
stenographer and typewriter. Have you work for 
me? 

Masterson. Well, now, do you know I 
would n't say plain, if 

Beatrix. Do you wish to dictate something? 

Masterson. Yes. I want to write to my tailor. 

[Beatrix sits at the desk, and prepares to take 
notes. Masterson moves a chair to a position from 
which he can observe her at short range, and sits 
down.] 



Act II 31 

Masterson. This is a letter to Mr. Thomas 
Turner, Fifth Avenue, near Thirty-second Street, 
New York. You may begin by saying, My dear 
Turner, About those suits we were talking about, 
I have something that I particularly want to im- 
press on you about them — not the ones you were to 
have ready for Lenox, because I am not at all sure 
whether when the time comes, it will be really nec- 
essary [Pauses and stares at Beatrix.] 

Beatrix. Really necessary. 

Masterson. Oh, hang it ! Where was I ? 

Beatrix. Really necessary. 

Masterson. I know, but have n't I lost the 
thread, somehow? 

Beatrix. I do n't know. 

Masterson. Well, write that out, like a good 
girl ; and I '11 go over it, and put it in proper form 
to be written finally. Oh ! you might add this : 
I 've seen about all the girls in this hotel, and there 
is n't one I 'd look at a second time. I mean, of 
course, among those who are here for pleasure, 
and 

[Mrs. Davis comes in, glances at Beatrix and 
Masterson^ and speaks aside with the clerk at his 
desk.] 

Beatrix. Pardon me. I find that sometimes, 
when their minds are occupied with important mat- 



32 The Wilderness 

ters, my customers get things mixed. It occurred 
to me that you had undoubtedly forgotten that you 
were writing to your tailor. 

Masterson. By Jove ! you know : I believe I 
did. You need n't write out that last. 

Beatrix. You '11 find the other at the clerk's 
desk. What is the number of your room? 

Masterson. I do n't know. 

Beatrix [rising]. Your name? 

Masterson. Masterson, — F. Bosworth Master- 
son. Do you know 

Beatrix. Have you any more dictation? 

[Mrs. Davis turns from the clerk's desk, and 
looks at Beatrix and Masterson.] 

Masterson. No, but I 'm sure I 've seen 

you somewhere. I can't think 

Beatrix. You must excuse me. I have a great 
deal of work; and I can talk only business in busi- 
ness hours. [She enters her room.] 

Mrs. Davis [coming forzmrd,- as Masterson 
rises]. The doctor mus' see that dear child as soon 
as he comes in. He 's got a temp'rachoore of a 
hundred an' one, I think. He bit the end off the 
thermometer. He 's so high-spurited. [Nodding 
toward the door of, Beatrix's room.] You 've 
been follerin' my .suggestion, eh, Freddie? 

Masterson. F've been dictating a business let- 
ter, if that 's what you mean. I '11 not deny that I 



Act II 33 

find the girl snappy; and I like 'em that way. 
Thinks she 's above her station, and all that. She 
was embarrassed : probably she 's only used to busi- 
ness men. But outside of business hours, — that 's it. 
You heard her. I can take a hint from a pretty 
girl. 

Mrs. Davis. Jus' you be careful. You wan' to 
have a good reputation, you know. Well, I mus' 
go back to mu baby. I '11 see you at dinner. Din- 
ner at one o'clock! [She goes out.] 

[As Masterson goes to the clerk's desk, zchere 
he speaks aside zvith the clerk, Fosdick comes in. 
Beatrix comes from her room, and takes some 
papers from her desk. Fosdick passes near her, 
and she speaks.] 

Beatrix. Mr. Fosdick, I owe you an apology. 

Fosdick. Please do n't. And I am sure I need 
not apologize for calling to your mind things that 
are dear to you, even if a little sad. 

Beatrix. I must either ignore the no-see-ums 
or defy them. Thus far I have ignored them : now 
I mean to defy them. The East is far from new to 
me; but of late my wires to the West have all been 
down, and perhaps I am a little homesick. The 
-temptation to talk with one who knows my country 
is too much for me. The early morning is the only 
time that I can ever be sure of having free. If you 
will meet me here tomorrow morning at six, we 



34 The Wilderness 

can walk down to the shore, and reduce your credit 
balance. 

FosDicK [as Beatrix is about to enter her 
room]. At six to-morrow morning. 

[Masterson, as he goes out with the assistant 
elerk, unobserved by Beatrix and Fosdick, looks 
sharply at Fosdick.] 



END OF ACT II 



Act III 35 



ACT III 

{_A little plateau on the shore of Farezvell Bay. 
To the right and half way across the back is the 
rocky edge of a bank, or bluff, zvhich may be sup- 
posed to fall sharply twelve or fifteen feet from the 
level of the plateau to the beach below. The beach 
is invisible, the line of the bluff's edge cutting the 
waters of the bay beyond. Upon the left and at 
the back is a large rock, or small cliff, of Maine 
granite, rising sheer fifteen or sixteen feet. Its 
face is irregular and fissured and covered with lich- 
ens. Here and there in the crevices upon its face 
grozif ferns, and these grow more luxuriantly along 
its base. In fissures near the top of the cliff, two 
stunted, wind-blown cedars find root. They are 
straining seazmrd under the influence of the north- 
east storms of many-a winter. Above and beyond 
the rock, only sky and water, except that in the mid- 
dle distance a rocky, wooded point makes out from 
behind the cliff, with a lighthouse on the end. Be- 
yond the point, the open Atlantic and the horizon, 
where sky and ocean meet. Broken pieces of rock 
at the base of the cliff afford convenient seats. 



36 The Wilderness 

The time is half-past six in the morning of the 
day foUozving that of Act II. 

Beatrix and Fosdick are seated. He smokes a 
pipe. Masterson appears at the right of the cliff. 
After peering cautiously at Beatrix and Fosdick, 
he ivithdraivs.'] 

Beatrix. Mr. Fosdick, out West our manners 
are sometimes rough, but our etiquette, as you must 
know, is very strict, setting its face particularly 
against the smallest display of curiosity about the 
affairs of a casual acquaintance. You must not 
try to find out my origin, my history, my ambitions, 
hopes, or fears. I know that such things are prob- 
ably the stock in trade of the summer girl. You 
will find plenty of them in our happy family yon- 
der. I am a working woman. 

Fosdick. You do me an injustice, — not inten- 
tionally, I am sure, for you seem to me (and I '11 
say this, if it does offend you, because it is the bare 
truth) — you seem to me to be the very goddess of 
justice. Therefore you shall not charge me with 
meanness of which I have not been guilty. I re- 
sent it from you, as I should from a man. What 
I said meant that I should like to know all that you 
would willingly tell me about yourself, and no 
more, — not another thing. If you think me capable 
of prying, our acquaintance becomes, I am sure, 



Act III 37 



impossible to you : my self-respect makes it impos- 
sible to me. 

Beatrix. Perhaps I have been unfair. No: 
let me just talk straight. It seems to be harder 
here than in my own country. I have been unfair. 
I apologize. Enough of this. Let us go West 
again. 

FosDiCK. One other thing. You must believe 
that I am incapable of presuming on your conde- 
scension in any degree. You have made it clear 
that my part is that of a live wire between you and 
the things out there. I shall not forget my part. 
I am content with it. 

Beatrix. Condescension! [Sinilmg.] That is 
truly funny. Here is a young man w^ith all the out- 
ward signs of comparative freedom from imbecility; 
successful beyond his years, as I have learned in 
my business capacity, although I know nothing as a 
talking animal ; interested in big things, worth do- 
ing, that will bring him wealth, and perhaps a kind 
of fame, within five years; safe, quite safe, from 
immediate danger of starvation; without serious 
physical deformity, so far as I have observed; richly 
endowed by a prodigal Nature with sight, hearing, 
and an excellent imitation of the power of speech, 
— and this young man talks about the condescen- 
sion of a stenographer to whom [^Consulting note- 



38 The Wilderness 

book.] he now owes a balance of fourteen dollars 
and seventeen cents. Thirty-three two cent stamps, 
sixty-six cents. Net balance, thirteen dollars and 
fifty-one cents. 

FosDicK. I 'm sure flattered a w^hole lot. I think 
you have a nice appreciation of shades of meaning 
in language : your education in that respect has evi- 
dently been catholic. When I said condescension, 
I used precisely the right word, — or it would be 
precisely right but for the fact that you came out to 
meet the West, and not to meet me. 

Beatrix. Yes : the West. [After a pause, she 
speaks very gently, looking into the distance.] My 
father was a western man, — a kind of pioneer, a 
natural explorer, a rolling stone. He always was 
for finding out what w^as beyond the next ridge, and 
beyond that w^re ridges and ridges. He was my 
best friend. He taught me to cruise the woods by 
course and distance. He taught me many other 
things. From him I get a spirit of exploration 
that leads me sometimes into regions where a com- 
pass is of little use. Without much education him- 
self, he was determined that I should be learning 
every minute; and his idea of education was not 
bounded by the books. 

■ [A moment before she finishes speaking, Fos- 
DiCK lights a match, his pipe hazing gone out. As 
she finishes, she takes the burning match from him, 



Act III 39 



and holds it zvhile he lights his pipe. She blows 
out the match, hut continues to hold it, holding 
dreamily at it. Then she throws it azvay, and looks 
lip.] 

Beatrix [ivith a little start of surprise] . Why ! 
I must have been three thousand miles away: I 
used to do that for my father, — always. 

FosDicK. I understand: 

Beatrix. You must have seen some of the big" 
men in the West, — some of the men who did 
things. 

FosQiCK. Yes : I have worked for some of them. 
[After a pause.] I remember once when I was 
running lines for Walton in the foot-hills of the 
Sierras 

Beatrix. John Walton of Wyoming? 

FosDicK. Yes. 

Beatrix. Everybody out there worked for him 
sooner or later. I have copied contracts in which 
his name occurred. 

FosDicK. Wh 

Beatrix [after a little pause]. You knew him? 

FosDiCK. As a rhan on the verge of his system, 
as one of his innumerable antennae. I spent two 
summers for him in the foot-hills of the Sierras, 
and once I was for two weeks in his office, work- 
ing up my field notes into a report. I used to see 
him then. 



40 The Wilderness 

Beatrix. Of course all western people knew 
about him. Our trail crossed his sometimes. He 
must have been an interesting character, but a hard, 
implacable man. 

FosDiCK. So, many people thought. But I grew 
to admire him; and I think that after a time I 
should have grown to love him. He was the 
strongest man I ever knew. 

Beatrix. Tell me about him. A strong man 
always interests me. 

FosDicK. Hard and implacable, I know he was 
considered. But in those two weeks, and even 
more in ten days that I spent with him in the open, 
for sooner or later he saw everything for himself, 
I got to km)w"him better than the world knew him. 
He loved a fight, and he was implacable to those 
he believed to be his 'enemies. But he always 
fought fair. He always had what he believed to 
be good reason for his enmity. 

Beatrix. I have understood that he was unedu- 
cated. 

FosDicK. I wish I had half his education. In 
the ordinary sense, he was not an educated or a re- 
fined man ; but he had learned more in the hard 
school of life than some men would learn in a 
thousand years. Perhaps he learned as much in 
Nature's school. Not that he was a naturalist, fur- 
ther than any good woodsman is a naturalist; and 



Act III 41 



a better woodsman never stepped in moccasins. 
No : I could not understand it. I do n't believe he 
understood it himself: he was not introspective. 
But in the wilderness his spirit seemed to expand 
and at the same time to grow more massive. 

Beatrix. And with all his great affairs, had 
he time for picnics in the woods ? 

FosDiCK. Picnics ! Have I made you under- 
stand the man so ill that you can talk of picnics and 
John Walton? I think some of the best work of 
his brain was done on the trail and in quick water. 
Have I not said that he seemed to draw inspiration 
from the woods? I am very sure, at least, that 
from them he drew much of that strength which 
was his even in the cities. [After a pause.] His 
brain seemed to be geared so that it always worked 
true, — not brilliantly, perhaps, or always rapidly, 
but with a kind of inevitableness that was like the 
tide of the ocean. 

Beatrix. You have said that he fought fair. 
Was he a square sort of man? 

FosDicK. He had hewed out for himself a sys- 
tem of philosophy and a code of honor; and, unlike 
many of us, he tried mightily to live up to them. 
I shall never go to a better school than that of 
which he was teacher; and he never knew that he 
was teaching.. I can see him now by the light of 
our camp-fire, almost above timber line in the Sweet 



42 The Wilderness 

Water Mountains. And then he would talk, — remi- 
niscences, prophecies, speculation, anecdotes, — not 
comic-paper anecdotes, but things out of his own 
experience. He had a deep, pathetic vein of humor, 
the existence of which, T think, most people never 
suspected. It always seemed to me to lie near tlie 
source of tears. 

Beatrix [ivith suppressed emotion]. I have 
heard one or two other men express a kind of loy- 
alty to him. 

FosDicK. His men were always loyal. I began 
to understand thdt in those "days. I was pretty 
young then; and I think that if he had told me to 
walk under a falling sequoia, I should have done it 
quite as a matter of course. Yet he would set traps 
to test his men, — dead-falls and bear-traps, right in 
the trail; and if they were caught, they heard from 
him. Oh! but he could make his meaning clear. 
His grammar was of a somewhat undress variety, 
but he never failed to convey the precise shade of 
thought. I have wondered sometimes whether with 
more education he w^ould have been even more 
effective, or w^hether mere book-learning w^ould 
have robbed him of the rugged strength that carried 
him so far. I would not have changed him : I like 
to remember him as he was. 

Beatrix [speaking unth difHeiilty']. Did you 
say that he was not all or always hard ? 



Act hi 43 



FosDicK. Miss Wilber, I am at a loss. Here is 
the most intelligent woman I have ever known, the 
bravest, if I am a judge of the courage in the hu- 
man eye, the most sympathetic, the 

Beatrix Irising]. Mr. Fosdick, you must not. 
I did not think it of you. And after your profes- 
sions ! 

Fosdick [rising]. You do n't understand. I 'm 
going to make you understand. Because, if, when 
I 'm done, you wish to know me only as a talking 
machine, it will be because you are not the woman 
I — the woman I 've taken you to be. This . is a 
test, if you please. You do not fear a test. 

Beatrix \_dpazmig her head up proudly]. Well? 

Fosdick. Here is this woman, being what she 
is. She has professed an interest in my poor at- 
tempt to give her some idea of the finest man, body 
and mind, that ever trod the western wilderness. 
And at the end, when I have laid bare my — I can 
almost say love, — veneration for him, she asks a 
question that seems to show — to show that she 
has n't heard a word. 

Beatrix [turning aivay from him]. Let me 
[Choking.] — Perhaps I can explain. 

Fosdick. No. You shall not come down from 
the height where I — Nature has set you, to explain 
to any man. How did we lead up to Walton ? Let 
me take the back trail. 



44 Tpie Wilderness 

[He stajids zcitJi Jiis Junuls bcliind his hack, look- 
ing upon the ground. She turns and looks at him. 
He looks up.] 

F'osDicK. I — [Aside.] Her eyes are wet. Like a 
clear pool. How clear! [To her, after a pause, 
speaking very gently.] I have been wrong. I have 
been blind. But now I see. We talked of the West : 
your heart went out to it. You spoke of your 
father : your spirit followed. And then, like the 
self-satisfied ape that I am, I could not — Miss Wil- 
ber, I lay my submission at your feet, — gladly, — 
gladly and most humbly. 

Beatrix [looking away, and speaking with dif- 
ficulty]. You can not know — I [A pause.] 

What is in my heart I have always spoken. [Turn- 
ing to him, and speaking with slight vehemence.] 
Do you think that I am blind to the courage in the 
human eye, that — that 

[She zmlks away a few steps, and stands looking 
out over the zvater. In. a minute she turns, and 
speaks while moving sloidy tozmrd him.] 

Beatrix. I have been thinking how to make 
amends. I know of no better way than this : I have 
always liked to talk, I have talked so much, with 
[Emphasising the zi'ord slightly.] men. Your sub- 
mission I accept gladly, — gladly and proudly, in the 
form of an answer to my question. Did you say 
that he was not altogether hard ? 



Act III 45 



FosDicK. Let me see. Yes : I remember. One 
day when we were on the trail together, he fell 
into talk about his daughter, — quite a little girl, I 
should think, and, as I learned afterward from a 
prospector who had been in with them, rather a 
masculine little savage. He was so big and simple, 
for all his shrewdness, that I do n't think he knew 
how he was laying bare his heart to me. Perhaps 
he did not care. Yet he must have believed that I 
should understand. I can not forget that. 

Beatrix. Did — did he seem to think a good 
deal of her? 

FosDiCK. Think a good deal of her? I felt 
awed, as one might feel in a great cathedral. I had 
never known what a father's love could be. 

Beatrix [sobbing a little]. I — I lost my father 
not very long ago ; and I loved him, I hope, as much 
as John Walton loved his little savage. 

[FosDicK leaves her, zmlking inland, and disap- 
pearing at the left of the rock. Beatrix stands 
looking seaivard. Masterson comes from the right 
of the rock, unseen by Beatrix. He n'alks in the 
direction in z^'Jiich Fosdick has gone, and looks 
after him.] 

Masterson. He 's gone, right enough. Now, if 
they 've had a lovers' quarrel, this is my chance. 
[To Beatrix, approaching her.] Good morning. 
There are n't many things that would bring me out 



46 The Wilderness 

at this ungodly hour; but a little bird whispered 
to me that I should find you here. 

Beatrix [zcho has given him only one contemp- 
tuous glance over her shoulder^. I prefer to be 
alone. 

Masterson. Are you sure? It is n't easy for 
you to be alone. And office hours have n't begun 
yet. 

[Beatrix turns as if to go in the direction of 
the hotel. Masterson is in the path.] 

Beatrix. I wish to go back to the hotel. Will 
you let me pass ? 

Masterson. Do you know, you are superb 
when you are angry. 

Beatrix. I find it hard to make you understand. 
Perhaps you can not understand,^ — anything. I do \ } 
not want to forget that I am a woman. 
. Masterson. No fear : I '11 not let you forget. 

Beatrix. Every word you speak to a woman 
is an insult, unless she is of your kind. You are to \ 
let me pass, you are not to speak to me again, lest ) 
I forget I am a woman. 

Masterson. Well, what a row-de-dow! You 
should have been an actress. You do — Hah ! That 's 
it. I 've got it now. Do you remember the Stone 
Image ? 'T was a great show. Your part was small 
enough, my dear; but you did it damned well. 

[As he speaks, an expression of determination 



Act LI I 47 



grows in her face, her brozi' becomes slightly puck- 
ered, and a cold Ham e rises in her eyes.] 

Masterson. Naturally, I did n't know you, 
dressed this way, and on this vacation job. But, 
I say, I 'm glad to find you. I do n't mind waiting 
for the Walton girl — with you. 

[He advances, a step. Beatrix falls back a step, 
zi'ifh a repellent gesture.] 

Beatrix. The Walton girl! 

Masterson. Now do n't be jealous, dear. The 
rich young western savage. I mean to marry her, 
but only for her money. You know who has my 
heart. 

Beatrix [her face becoming set]. No woman 
could give you what you need. A man's way is the 
only way. 

[As she speaks, she advances two paces toward 
him, and stands lightly and firmly, her right foot a 
few inches behind her left, her body inclined slightly 
forward, her right hand clenched at her side.] 

Masterson. Very fine. But drop the heroics. 
I 'm tired of them. I know a woman who can give 
me exactly what I need. You ought to' go in for 
tragedy. But there '11 be no tragedy for you and me, 
sweet little spitfire, when we get a few of the dol- 
lars of that low-lived old pirate. ^Beatrix throzvs 
back her head, with a gasping indake of the breath.] 
Come, let's sit down. 



48 The Wilderness 

[He goes fozvard her, reaches out his right hand, 
and lays it upon her ami. Szi'inging her body upon 
the hips, she brings her clenched right hand crash- 
ing against his chin zcifh all her strength, expelling 
her breath zmth something like a sob as the blow 
goes home. She springs back instantly, and stands 
poised for further action. Masterson's hands 
drop to his sides, his chin falls upon his chest, his 
knees give zvay slozuiy, and he falls forzvard, and 
lies still. She looks off, starts, quickly changes her 
position, and stands still. Bill saunters in, pant- 
ing Jiard.] 

Beatrix. Hev ye lost somethin' p'raps, pard- 
ner? 

Bill. I on'y come out for a little pasear. 

Beatrix [trying to stand so that Bill zvill not 
see Masterson]. I thought ye might be locrk- 
in' fer yer wind. ■ 

Bill. Who 's the corpse? Friend er yours? 

Beatrix [turning tozvard Masterson]. Oh! 
It 's Mr. Masterson. He must have one of his faint 
turns. He 's delicate. 

Bill. So I sh'd jedge. I know them kind er 
faintin' spells. They 's on'y one cure fer 'em; an' 
thet 's for the onfortnit victim ter take a reg'Iar 
course er them. — one every fifteen minutes fer er- 
bout two days, er in desprit cases, three. 






Act III 49 



[Masterson moves slozdy and sits up. Bill 
shozvs a disposition to get at him, but Beatrix 
steadily interposes.] 

Beatrix. Now, Bill, he does n't need your kind 
help. 

Bill. I do n't like his looks none w'atever ; but 
I think he 'd look interestin' a whole lot with his 
face kind er moved over an' erbout four of his ribs 
busted in. 

Beatrix [To Masterson]. You had bet- 
ter go. [Sternly.] Leave this place quickly. I 
think that this extraordinary person saw your un- 
fortunate accident. He seems to be very excitable. 
[Aside to BiLJ^] I had to say that. [To Mas- 
terson]. He has been talking most violently. 
I may not be able to restrain him. 

[Masterson rises, and zvalks azvay unsteadily.] 

Beatrix. Perhaps you are still of some use, 
Bill. If you will be good, I shall be glad to have 
you near me. What brought you here? The 
boys 

Bill. Was all right by last accounts. I jes' 
nat'ly broke down in my nerves ter the islant, with 
nuthin' ter do but ride herd on the lopster-pots. So 
I cached all the duffle, an' jumped the reservation. 
I thought I 'd go up ag'in' the world fer a spell, ter 
"see w'ether I was anythin' but a mere no account — 



50 The Wilderness 

W'y did ir t ye wait f er me ? I do n't see thet I was 
any use thet time. 

Beatrix [sitting dozen.] Do n't say that. I 
think you did a good deal to put life into the poor 
gentleman. 

Bill, [sitting down.] Poor — w'at? Ef — W'y 
did n't ye wait fer me? 

Beatrix. You are getting beyond :ne. Or am 
I outgrowing you? I do'n't understand you. Per- 
haps our separation has estranged our minds, — 
once, I thought, rather sympathetic. All my life I 
have learned from, you, and your best years have 
been given to teaching me, to stand on my own two 
feet, at the same time not forgetting other extreme 
portions of the body, designed by nature for trifling 
functions that the feet can not perform. I knov/, 
and try not to forget, that the hand, rather than the 
foot, should be used in tossing a flapjack, the eye in 
picking up a blaze, and the brain in reading it. 
Sometimes I have thought that you [A slight 
pause, in which the suggestion of a dreamy smile 
passes over her face.] set me too much upon .a 
height, — expected too much of me. [After a silence 
of several seconds.] If we were riding together 
along the trail, and a sequoia four hundred and 
fifty feet high came toppling upon us to its fall, you 
w^ould expect me, as a matter of course, to leap 
lightly from my saddle, and help you push the tree 



Act III '51 



the other way, lest it should block the trail. Yet 
when I find in the trail a toad, reeking — [Hiding 
her face in her hands for a moment] God, how it 
reeked! with all uncleanness, and it will not move, 
and I must turn back or set my heel upon it, and I 
do what I must do, — when I do this, you come and 
say, *'Why did you do it ? Why did you not wait for 
me?" You would not have me false to your teach- 
ing — and my father's. And this thing that I had to 
touch defiled me so that I thought I should never 
again be clean. [A pause.] Then down through 
the gulch, from the mountains, came a wind. It 
did not blow very hard (yet, Bill, I never knew 
wind blow harder). In it was the tonic of the 
pines, — the smell of the wild flowers. It wrapped 
me all about, and washed me clean. The noisome 
vapors that were stifling me were swept away 
[Throwing up her head, and taking two or three 
deep breaths,] by the wind. The unclean thing 
was gone. [A pause. A far-azvay look comes into 
her eyes. She speaks musingly.] He said like a 
great cathedral. [A pause.] Have I been talking 
in my sleep? I must hev ketched it off you. All 
my bad habits, as well as most of my polite accom- 
plishments, I get from you. I fear I am hopelessly 
dominated by your arrogant and brutal nature. 
What were we talking about ? Oh ! yes, about your 
following me about the country. If we were peo- 



52 The Wilderness 

pie of the smallest pretension to social position, 
your conduct would certainly excite remark. Now 
that you have followed me, what am I to do with 
you, — you great, clumsy, dear old timber wolf? 
[As she says this, she shakes him gently, holding his 
coat collar with both hands.] 

Bill. Follered 'er ! Jes' w'en I 'm beginnin' ter 
git a leetle peace! An' I starts out fer a change er 
air, w'ich all my doctors allows I needs it bad, and 
the fust thing — Follered 'er! 

Beatrix. Did n't I order you to stay by the 
island ? 

Bill. Ye never give me an order in yer life, an* 
ye know I would n't take none from ye. 

Beatrix. William, you are perfectly impossible. 
I can not, in deference to my own self-respect, con- 
tinue to employ a person with so little conception of 
what is becoming to his position. You are dis- 
charged. 

Bill. Betty Gal, w^hat 's come ter ye in this ' 

Beatrix. No, Bill. I '11 give you one more 
chance. Sometimes I have had a faint suspicion, — 
surmise, — call it what you will, that somewhere in 
the wind-swept caverns of your vast and gloomy 
nature, one who was not too stern a worshiper of 
truth might say that he suspected that he saw faint 
traces of something that seemed to resemble a very 



Act III 53 



tenuous vein of humor. But I speak with diffi- 
.dence. Certainly where I am concerned you seem 
sometimes to be c[uite impervious. I should not 
even try to discharge you, because I know that you 
would certainly miss fire. 

Bill. I ain't goin' ter bother ye none. I 've 
took a job down ter the liv'ry stable; the bosses is 
more human then the lopster-pots. An' I '11 be on 
hand ef wanted. 

Beatrix. Now listen hard. I 'm Miss Wilber 
here, and you are positively not to tell anyone dif- 
ferent. This is an order. Savvy? 

Bill [savagely]. You — [Humbly.] Yes, Betty. 

Beatrix. You had better not try to see me un- 
til you get word from me, and be sure not to let 
anyone know that you know me. 

Bill. I '11 stick ter my job down with the 
cayuses ez clost ez I kin ; but I ain't goin' ter take 
no arter-dinner naps. Did n't I take notice of an- 
other gent eroun' these parts before the party with 
the faints passed erway ? 

Beatrix. It may be; there was one here. 

Bill. Is he needin' my cure fer the faints any? 

Beatrix. No, Bill. He 's one of us. He 's an 
eastern man, I think ; but he knows our country. I 
think he loves it. 

BiLL; Knows it, does he? I 'd soon find out ef 



54 The Wilderness 

he knowed it. How kin a he'pless leetle gal like 
you tell? 

Beatrix. He did work for Father, — surveying 
and that sort of thing. His name is Fosdick. 

Bill. Fosdick? Seems ter me I heard tell — 
Like ez not, he 's one er these yer play-actors stuff - 
in' ye full er lies. Knows it? They ain't nobody 
on this hull watershed knows anythin'. 

Beatrix [rising]. Well, for all I know he 's 
around here yet. P'r'aps ef ye was ter lay down 
here in the trail, he 'd come an' fall over ye. But 
I do n't want to see him again now, or to be seen 
talking with such a disreputable party as you. [She 
goes off, tozvard the hotel.] - 

Bill [rising]. So long, Gal. [Looking after 
Beatrix.] Don't want ter meet him ag'in now. 
I onct hed a kind er dream she 's not li'ble ter meet 
this knowin' party fer quite a spell. 
- [He sits dozim, and prepares his pipe for a 
smoke. After he has taken a fezv zvhiffs, Fosdick 
comes in.] 

Fosdick. Excuse me: have you seen a young 
-lady here ? 

Bill [very deliberately and with pauses]. I 
seen somethin' thet looked like a leetle mite of a gal, 
er a burro er some sich a thing, hittin' the high 
places erway over yander. 

Fosdick. Are n't you from the West? 



Act III 55 



Bill. Not ez I knows on. The Fosdicks was 
all foaled an' branded in Aroostock County, State 
er Maine. I ain't never b'en ter college, but I was 
brought up proper. I 'm nat'ly all et up with 
curiosity, but [Rising and approaching Fosdick, 
who slozvly assumes the attitude which Beatrix 
assumed at the end of her interznew with Master- 
son.] not wishin' ter die sudden^ I most gin'ly asts 
questions arter they b'en answered. 

Fosdick. I beg your pardon. I 've been away 
so long from the country where they raise men, that 
I 've sure forgot my manners. 

[Bill slaps his thigh with delight, and Fosdick 
relaxes his attitude.] 

Bill [affecting to pick something from the spot 
that he has slapped]. I never see no sich man-eatin' 
hoss-flies ez they raise in thisyer kentry. 

Fosdick. I apologize for taking you for a 
w^estern man. [Bill makes a slight motion as if to 
drazv' a gun.] I can't imagine what misled me. 

Bill [looking fixedly at Fosdick, and speak- 
ing more slozdy]. P'raps it 's because up in Aroos- 
took County we lives mostly on western canned 
tongue. 

Fosdick. As you seem to have taken the job of 
bell mule, I '11 confine myself to following your 
trail. My name is Fosdick; but [Speaking delib- 
erately and zmth slightly increased emphasis.] that 



56 The Wilderness 

ain't my fault. [A pause] And I always go West 
when I want to take a full breath without busting" 
some bric-a-brac. 

Bill [aside]. He'll do. 

FosDicK, You '11 excuse my being personal. I 
ain't heeled. It would please me a whole lot to 
meet you the other side of the divide; for in spite 
of your eastern birth and training, the air from 
the Pacific would be downright becoming to you. 
So long. 

Bill. So long, stranger. 

FosDicK [aside, as he moves azmy]. This 
ruffian's name is n't Fosdick. I tried him on that. 

Bill [aside]. I shore likes the way his head 
is screwed on. 



END OF ACT III 



Act IV 57 



ACT IV 

[The scene is the same as that of Act III. The 
time is tzvo zireeks later. Beatrix is seated. Bill 
comes in.'] 

Beatrix. Well, Bill, I had to send for you. 
You 're late. I might hev b'en et ter death by a 
bear. \ 

Bill. It 's a wonder ye was n't tore ter pieces by 
one er these yere wild chipmunks. They 're layin' 
constant fer unpertected females. A bunch er 
bosses come in from the West, an' I bed ter show 
them farmers how ter han'le 'em. 

Beatrix. I 'm glad enough to see your sunny 
smile again. 

Bill. B'en reel lonesome, hev ye? 

Beatrix. I do n't know that I can say that, but 
I 've sure been longing for some of my own folks 
to talk to. 

Bill [sitting dozvn]. Ye might hev Herbert. 
I see a piece in the paper w'ere 'he 's livin' erboard 
some party's yacht thet put inter Portland with a 
busted rudder. 

Beatrix. Herbert is n't here, and I do n't 
know — No: you are the appointed victim; and if 



58 The Wilderness 

you '11 give me a chance to get a word in edgewise, 
I '11 address my remarks to your inattentive ear. [A 
pause] What did you say? 

Bill. Nuthin'. 

Beatrix. I feared I had not quite understood 
what you did n't say. ^ Did you ever feel a kind of 
gladness all over you, like heat-lightning? Did you 
ever feel that the sunshine was striking right 
through to your diaphragm, and that you 'd have to 
hold fast to a picket-rope to keep from floating 
aw^ay every time you took a full breath? Did you 
ever feel like that, Bill ? 

Bill. Not thet I remember of. I was struck 
onct by lightnin', an' it took the soles clean off er 
both my boots ; but it did n't feel like thet none. 

Beatrix. If. you had ever been truly happy, 
you w^ould have felt like that. 

Bill. Is thet the way you feel? 

Beatrix. Yes, yes. 

Bill. You ain't b'en shook no way ? You ain't 
fell on yer head ner nuthin' sence ye hit the trail ? 

Beatrix. No. No. My head is sound; but I 
have been hit hard. 

Bill. Hit! Show me 

Beatrix. I never really felt the need of a 
woman before. Father, and you, and the boys, — 
I have n't needed any other. But now I want a 
woman to talk to, and there is n't any. [Languish- 



Act IV 59 



ing upon Jiis shoulder.] O sweet friend, kind 
nurse, you will have to be-my blushing confidant. 

Bill. You go right off to a docter. You ain't 
well. 

BiEATRix. No, Bill : I ain't well. I 'm in love. 
, Bill. I knowed they 'd be hell ter pay, ef ye 
onct got off the range. In love ? With a man ? 

Beatrix. Did you think perhaps with a prairie 
dog? Yes, Bill, with a man. 

Bill [after a pause]. Do ye happen ter know 
w'ere thet maverick thet 's troubled with the faints 
is located at present speakin' ? 

Beatrix. William, I think I said with a man. 

Bill. Ef ye call me William ag'in, I '11 — 
I '11 

Beatrix. What, good William, wnll you do? 

Bill. Well now, who 's thisyer short horn thet 's 
b'en campin' on yer trail ? How do ye know he 
ain't arter yer money, and r 

Beatrix. Stop. There are some things that I 
will not take even from you. [After a pause.] 
You do n't deserve to be told that he does n't know 
my name, that he thinks I 'm poor, that he was one 
of Father's men, but is his own man now, and mine, 
that 

Bill. \Miat, him? This yer Fosdick?- 

Beatrix. Bob Fosdick. 

Bill. Hell ! W' 'y he 's a man, he is. 



6o The Wilderness 

Beatrix [taking off her hat]. That was the 
impression that I tried to convey to you by the mere 
use of spoken language. I do n't know v/hat other 
medium of communication to try with you. I sup- 
pose you are not conversant with the deaf and dumb 
sign language, are you ? 

Bill. But I did n't never think he 'd git soft er- 
bout a gal. 

Beatrix. I do assure you, he can get most 
amazin' soft. 

Bill. Well, ye want ter wa'ch out not ter go 
an' sp'ile him. P'raps he do n't know I see him 
w'en he thought I was goin' ter pull a gun on him. 

Beatrix. Bill, what do you mean? When 
were you going to pull your gun on him? I do n't 
believe you have your gun here. 

[Bill shozvs her his gun.] 

Beatrix. Gents do n't pack guns in this country. 
What do you expect to do with yours ? 

Bill. You 'd oughter know I do n't never travel 
ter furrin parts without her. I thought she might 
come in handy. I 've knowed her to. 

Beatrix. And did you think I should prefer 
Robert after you had trimmed him to your taste 
with this? 

Bill. Now, Betty Gal, it was right erway arter 
I met thet party with the faints, an' I shore felt thet 
somebody hed oughter be shot up. 



Act IV 6i 



Beatrix. So you thought you 'd begin with the 
man I 'm going to marry. 

Bill. But ye was n't goin' ter marry him then. 

Beatrix. Yes, I was. 

Bill. Wat ! 

Beatrix. But I did n't know it. 

Bill. No, ye did n't know it,- — no more 'n Cape 
Horn Red McShane knowed [They was two on 
'em, t'other one was Arizona Red.] — no more 'n 
Red McShane knowed thet — Fosdick! thet 's it. 
Last time I seen thet son of a sea-goin' hoss-thief 
he was cussin' out a party name er Fosdick. I 
would n't want no better recommend. It might er 
b'en him. They was talkin' er runnin' thisyer Red 
out er the kentry. He was plenty mean. Le' me 
tell ye. 

Beatrix [sitting up quickly, and looking at her 
zvatch.] There is n't time now. Git, Bill. He '11 
be here in five minutes. He 's never late. You 
made me forget. 

Bill [rising]. So long. 
■^^ [Bill zvalks azvay, not fozvard the hotel. Bea- 
trix sits smiling a little for several seconds. Fos- 
dick comes in, goes to her, and, taking her head 
hetzveen his hands, kisses her hair tenderly. 1 

Fosdick. If that barbarian is going to cross 
your trail, you '11 have to be careful. 



62 The Wilder nes 



ss 



[He sits oil a .^tonc, and Beatrix sits on the 
ground, leaning against him.] 

Beatrix. Why? Have you met him? 

FosDiCK. I had a Httle casual chat with him 
some tiine ago. As I had n't seen him since, I sup- 
posed he 'd gone. He does n't compose well with 
the landscape here. 

Beatrix. No; he 's evidently a western man. 
He came moseying along here; and when he hegan 
to speak his native language, I rather encouraged 
him to linger. His talk made me feel quite at 
home. 

FosDiCK. You 'd better not encourage him. 
Probably he 's harmless, but I think he '11 bear 
watching. 

Beatrix. Why do you say that? I 'm sure he 
would n't hurt me. 

FosDicK. He says he w^as born and raised in 
Aroostook County. [Beatrix laughs.] Which 
statement does not help me to accept with child-like 
confidence his further statement that his name is 
Fosdick. 

Beatrix. What! [She shakes her fist siirrep- 
iitiously in the direction in which Bill has gone.] 

Fosdick. As I proved to my satisfaction it is 
not. When a gentleman who evidently is accus- 
tomed to wear a gun as part of full dress, even if he 
has n't one on him this minute, turns up at a peace- 



Act IV 63 



ful New England summer resort, takes my name in 
vain to my face, and tries to put me through my 
paces in real western style, I naturally sit up and 
take notice. But I do n't want to make you nerv- 
ous. 

Beatrix. You do n't make me in the least 
nervous. I 'm quite used to jiis kind. I believe 
that even if he meant you harm, I could protect you, 

FosDiCK. Bless your sweet eyes, I know you 
would, — if you could, — with your life. 

Beatrix. I think that would be very easy. 

[They sit silent for some seconds.] 

Beatrix. Tell me again, Robert, that we under- 
stand, — that you are content to wait. 

FosDicK. I am content to wait, and I can't wait 
a minute. _ 

Beatrix. As you will understand when there 
are no more secrets between us, all this has for me 
a flavor that is sweet beyond all words. It is sweet 
to you. Bob, is n't it? 

FosDicK. Yes, dear; you know it is, — beyond 
all words. 

Beatrix. And to me, — and the knowledge that 
it is so makes me feel selfish sometimes, — to me it 
has all that, and besides an added, a more poignant 
sweetness that you can not understand now. But 
that too you will share with me, — soon now. 
[After a pause.] I think sometimes, lately I have 



64 The Wilderness 

been thinking often, it will be the last thing I shall 
know before I die. 

[He kisses her.] 

FosDicK. To think that all the tritest things 
that ever lover said are true for me! Sometimes 
it seems to me that you are no mere woman, but 
rather the spirit incarnate of that country which is 
my only rival, — of its beauty, oh! always of its 
beauty, of its calmness, its quiet strength, its eternal 
rightness. The small, the mean, the least unclean- 
ness can not come near you, can not live near you, 
nor near anyone that you inspire. Betty, you 
have purified me as with a flame, but a flame that 
does not consume. 

Beatrix. Call me Betty Gal. 

FosDiCK. That 's it, — Betty Gal. For now I 
see that you are all human, and no mere goddess. 
After all, it is the woman that I love. It is the 
woman that can make me laugh, — how she can 
make me laugh! And it is the w^oman that could 
make me weep, but never will. How can you be 
so calm, so strong, and yet so delicate, so whimsi- 
cal, so fanciful? Even prosaic me you do inspire 
(or is it some black art of yours?) with visions. 

Beatrix. Tell me. ' 

FosDiCK. I remember a pool on the Yellow 
Gravel. 

Beatrix. Yes. 



Act IV 65 



FosDiCK. I have seen many like it; but this one 
pool has always lain in my mind as the perfect ex- 
pression of that magic of forest and waters which 
we of the West (for your country is mine now) 
feel in our blood. This pool was different. Per- 
haps it was the evening light. After a shower the 
sun was shining through the misty air, which yet 
was very cl^ar, with that peculiar, tempered, dying 
radiance which always seems to me to express, al- 
most to be, peace, — peace and regret perhaps in 
equal parts. 

Beatrix. I know. 

FosDicK. The forest opened to the west, and 
this light streamed in, — upon and all about the pool. 
In some of your innumerable moods you are that 
pool, — as calm, as sweet, as clear, — the loveliest — 
Oh ! I give it up. 

Beatrix. It 's a nice game. I like you when 
you try to be a poet. I like you rather well then. 

FosDiCK. I remember we passed that way again 
on the back trail, and the pool had changed. The 
sun was high and burning hot. The surface of 
the pool was hard and glittering. But it was as 
clear as ever. All the soft beauty of the pool was 
gone. Indians had camped there. The litter of 
their camp was all about. The ashes of their burnt- 
out fires lay where forest mould and carpeting of 
moss had been before. The undergrowth had been 



66 ' The Wilderness 

chopped and trampled down. But there were the 
same trees with their mighty boles rising far above 
us, — the same essential elements. Only the small- 
er, finer things had been destroyed. The unclean 
had been there, but was gone. [After a little 
pause.] Betty, I believe the pool was like John 
Walton then. Dear, your eyes are wet. 

Beatrix. Oh ! I am homesick. Even with you, 
I am homesick. 

FosDicK. We will go back. Dear heart, we 
will go back to that very pool. Nature has given it 
back its beauty; I am sure. 

Beatrix. . Robert. 

FosDiCK. Yes, Betty Gal. 

Beatrix. I need not tell you how happy I am, 
and I can not, — I have tried. But I a.m not sure 
that I am doing right. I never deceived anyone; 
and now, in a way, I am deceiving you, — of all the 
world, you! But I have promised. And I never 
broke a promise, either. I have promised you that 
w^hen I have left this place, you shall know all. But 
I have promised myself that I will not tell you un- 
til I have left this place. That promise weighs on 
me. I do n't know why it should. I have never, 
as far as I have had strength, been false to myself 
yet. I think that to be false to myself now would 
be the worst treachery to you. I can't get it out 
pf my head that, somehow, we are being tested. I 



Act IV 67 



am not so disloyal as to think of testing you. I 
know you. 

.-FosDiCK. And I know you, thank God. 

Beatrix.- Then, Robert, why do I feel like 
that? See now, I have never been afraid. My 
father taught me never to be afraid. . And I have n't 
been weak, have I ? 

FosDiCK. It is the simple truth that you are the 
strongest-hearted woman I have ever known, — 
that I have never known anyone as strong as you, — 
unless it was John Walton. 

[He takes pipe and tobacco pouch from his 
pocket, and prepares for a smoke. He hands a sul- 
phur match to Beatrix,, zvho lights it, and holds 
it for him while he lights his pipe.] 

Beatrix. And do you think I would ever break 
a promise ? 

FosDicK. You could not. 

Beatrix. To myself? 

FosDicK. To yourself least of all. 

Beatrix. There is perfect trust between us, 
Robert. 

FosDicK. Perfect trust. 

Beatrix. Nothing could shake it. 

FosDicK. Nothing. 

Beatrix. Nothing that you could imagine. 
' FosDiCK. Nothing that I could imagine. 



68 The Wilderness 

Beatrix. Promises can't help us, then. 

FosDicK. We do not need them. 

Beatrix. No; we do n't need them. ISitfing 
up sharply after a brief silenee, she seices his coat- 
collar ziith both hands, and shakes him.] You 
Bob, ain't ye got nuthin' in all this busy, bustlin' 
world ter do but ter set here with a half-witted 
summer gal thet do n't do nuthin' but whimper, an' 
whine, an' see things, — most prob'ly because she 's 
et some fried cakes er doughnuts ter thet there hotel 
that do n't agree with her? Can't I never git no 
sense inter ye nohow ? 

FosDiCK. Most prob'ly not. I guess my wits is 
wind-broke fer good. [Rising and zcalking a fezv 
steps toziurd the zvater, leaving his tobacco pouch 
lying on the stone upon zvhich he zms sitting.] 
Here cdmes a boat from the steam yacht that came 
in last night. I believe they 're going to land on 
the beach. The man in the stern sheets seems to 
find us interesting. If those glasses were loaded, 
we should be in danger. 

Beatrix [rising and coming tozvard him]. 
Robert, I am not going to run away. 

FosDicK. I shore won't bite ye. 

Beatrix. No, no. I 'm serious. I know this 
man who is coming ashore now. He is Herbert 
Walton, John Walton's son. He is coming here 
to speak to me. It will be hard. 



Act IV 69 

FosDicK. In God's name, Betty, what does this 
mean ? 

Beatrix. I can not tell you now. 

FosDicK. But — but 

Beatrix. You do not doubt me ? 

FosDiCK. How can I doubt you? 

Beatrix. That is enough. Whatever 

happens ? 

FosDiCK. Whatever happens. I '11 leave you, 

Beatrix. Yes, please. 

[FosDicK leaves her, zvalking inland/ After an 
interval, Herbert Walton comes up from the 
beach. He is slightly hut obviously intoxicated. He 
carries a pair of marine glasses.^ 

Herbert. Who 's that? 

Beatrix. Party name of Fosdick. 

Herbert. I 'm not Bill Harrold. Keep your 
elegant brand of western talk for those that like 
it. Fosdick brought me here. 

Beatrix. I did not suppose that you even knew 
I w^as here. 

Herbert. Well, I did : and I know more. I 'm 
the head of this family ; and I 'm not going to have 
you masquerading all over the place, and carrying 
on with the first miserable pup that makes eyes at 
you. If this is the Fosdick one of the men on- 
board tells about, we '11 soon send him about his 
business. 



The Wilderness 



Beatrix. Herbert, I 'd much rather talk with you 
this evening. You have been drinking, — probably to- 
give yourself courage to face me. If you 've come 
here to fight, you '11 need more courage than 
whiskey can give you. As for Robert Fosdick, you 
will speak of him with at least the form of respect,, 
as I am going to marry him. 

Herbert. Why in hell did n't Mrs. Davis warn 
me of this? 

Beatrix. Did you say Mrs. Davis? 

Herbert. Yes, since I Ve let it out. She very 
kindly wTote to w^arn me that you were making a 
fool of yourself with — Mr. Fosdick. I 'm in her 
debt, if I am too late to prevent all the mischief. 

Beatrix. You are too late to prevent any of 
the mischief, as you call it. 

Herbert. We '11 see about that. I forbid you 
to marry him. I forbid you to see him, — a pov- 
erty-stricken loafer who 's only after your money. 

Beatrix. I decline to listen to you while you 
are in this condition. But one thing you are to 
understand. Robert does not know who I am. 
He does not know my name. I am Betty Wilber to 
him. You are not to tell him. 

Herbert. Tell him ! I should rather think not. 
But do n't you suppose he knows your name? This 
woman knew it. He 's lying to you. [Beatrix 
turns to walk an^ay.] You stay here. 



Act IV 71 



[He runs after her. She turns, and faces him.] 

Beatrix. Herbert, you are not sober, and you 
are all out of condition. You can't look me in the 
eye. Your hand is n't steady. I think you know 
that when I am white-hot with anger, as you have 
made me now, you are not man enough to stop me. 
This evening at the hotel. Get sober, and do n't 
talk. 

[Beatrix goes toward the hotel, and "Herbert 
over the hank to the beach. After an interval Fos- 
DicK returns, and recovers his tobacco-pouch. Look- 
ing oif at the boat, he fills his pipe. Bill comes in, 
unseen by Fosdick, whom he regards attentively 
before speaking.] 

Bill. Mornin', stranger. 

Fosdick. Good morning. 

Bill. Them parties erboard the steam yacht 
must hev the hell of a good time. 

Fosdick. I 'd rather be on the deck of a birch- 
bark. [Walks toward the hotel.] 

Bill. They seem ter be makin' a kind er 
crooked trail. 

Fosdick [pausing and looking over the zuater]. 
I have seen straighter steering. 

[A pause.] 

Bill [looking sharply at Fosdick]. Looks 
like the trail Red — Shea made w'en he 's sufferin' 
from an over-dose er red-eye. 



y2 The Wilderness 

\^A pause] 

FosDicK. I believe they 're turning. Are they 
going- to put back? [A hail comes from the 
water.] I think they 're haiHng us. Perhaps Mr. 
Walton wants to speak to me. 

Bill [pulling his hat brim dozvn so that he can 
just see the boat under it]. Party a friend er 
yours ? W'at 's his given name ? 

FosDiCK [looking sharply at Bill]. Why, I 

Bill [speaking faster than is his wont"]. Not 
thet I give a damn. But I allers was dre'f'l inter- 
ested in given names. They was a party name er 
Eleazer Carr, an' I got so plumb interested inter 
thet there name, Eleazer, thet I could n't never set 
ter my victuals without sayin' it over twenty-one 
times. Then they was Herbert 

FosDiCK. That 's it. 

Bill. W'at? Were? 

FosDiCK. Herbert, — Herbert Walton. 

Bill. Oh ! I plumb forgot. [After an interval, 
during zvhich Bill places himself so that he can 
not he observed from the zmters edge.] Say, 
stranger, you ain't the on'y one thet 's got friends 
erboard. The red-headed party thet 's pullin' bow 
hez shore got a back thet 's some familiar ter me, 
an' I would n't wonder a mite ef his face was n't 
eroun' t' other side of him. He was makin' his 
brags frequent erbout his sailorin'. I ain't pleased 



Act IV 73 



ter death ter see him, but I ain't supprised none at 
all. I knowed he could n't last out — could n't last 
w'ere he was. His manners is some similar ter a 
rattlesnake, an' he 's li'ble ter say things thet 'd 
make me talk back reel onchristian. An' me feelin' 
thet soft I 'd cry ef I hed ter hurt a horned toad. 
I '11 pull my freight ; but I 'd shore admire ter wa'ch 
thet cute little critter a-playin' in the sand. Ye 
want ter wa'ch out fer him. [Walks azvay.] 

[Voices are heard on the beach below, and 
Herbert Walton comes over the bank.] 

Herbert. Now then, see here, you Fosdick. 

FosDicK. Mr. Walton? 

Herbert. That 's my name, — son of John 
Walton, and just as hell-bent on having my own 
way as ever the old man was. I want you to leave 
my — this Wilber girl alone. HI 've been neglect- 
ing her, I mean to look after her now. 

Fosdick. You '11 have to explain this. 

Herbert. I '11 explain nothing. Either you 're 
mixing up in things you know nothing about, or 
you 're a damned sneaking rascal. 

Fosdick. Mr. Walton, let us take the evil 
names for granted. I '11 be obliged to you, if you '11 
tell me what this all means. 

Herbert. What it means, is none of your busi- 
ness. Now, will you go away from this place, or 
shall I have to make you go? If you know what 



74 The Wilderness 

kind of a man John Walton was, you '11 be careful 
how you cross me. 

FosDicK. I will not go away until Miss Wilber 
tells me to go. 

Herbert. Is that your last word? 

FosDicK. It is, — until you are sober. 

[FosDiCK begins to move off. Herbert rushes 
at him. FosDiCK side-steps, and avoids Herbert^ 
who stumbles and falls to his knees. He rises, and 
rushes again with greater fury. Again Fosdick 
avoids him. Herbert^ finding nothing where he 
had expected to meet the resistance of Fosdick's 
body, goes dozvn with his own impetus, striking his 
head upon a stone, and lies still. Fosdick stoops 
over him, and turns him upon his back.] 

Fosdick. I think he is only stunned. 

[Four sailors rush up from the beach. One of 
them, Red McShane, aims a murderous blow 
at Fosdick zvith a boat stretcher. Fosdick 
rises just in time to dodge the blow, at the same 
time doubling up one of the other men with a body 
blozv. Fosdick's hat falls to tfie ground. As 
the men press upon him, he falls back to the cliff. 
The men hang back.] 

McShane. Spread out a leetle now, boys. 
We 've got him, — the pizen reptyle. Take yer time. 
He ain't li'ble ter git erway. Ef he gits through 



Act IV 75 

you, I 'm layin' fer him with thisyer stre'cher. 
Wait now 

FosDicK [looking hard at McShane, and 
speaking slozvly'\. Who 's the party [Shifting his 
intent gace from McShane to a point behind and 
at one side of McShane, and speaking quickly 
and exeitedly.] h^hmd you with the gun? 

[As the men turn to look behind McShane, 
FosDiCK stoops, and picks up in each hand a 
stone somewhat smaller than a man's fist. When 
McShane and the other men look back at him, 
he is standing erect with a stone concealed in each 
hand.] 

FosDiCK. That 's sure one on you, stranger. 
You must be losing your nerve. Next play 's yours. 
Do you guess you 're smart enough to get a rise out 
of me before I cash in? 

McShane. Wait now. I 've got somethin' ter 
say ter him erbout old times. Wa'ch him clost. 
He kin run, I know; but ef he 's like he uster be, 
he 'd ruther fight. Thet 's his on'y virtue. 

FosDicK. I 'm proud not to be able to remember 
the gentleman from Aroostook County, to whose 
remarks I have listened with very little interest. I 
beg to remind him that time is passing. If he came 
her-e to talk, I should like to know it. We might 
save ourselves a whole lot of trouble and some pain- 
ful moments. If he came here to fight, why do n't 



y6 The Wilderness 

you naval heroes get to work? Are you waiting 
for re-inforcements? 

McShane \funously'\. We won't keep ye 
waitin' on'y jes' long ernough ter let ye see the lay 
er the land. He 's the most onrighteous cattle- 
thief an' man-killer that ever pizened the air. {The 
other men draw back a little.] He crossed my trail 
twict out west, an' both times I seen the muzzle of 
his gun, w'en I was goin' peaceable erbout my busi- 
ness. An' now I 've got him. He was killin' Mr. 
Walton. We all seen him. They ain't no other 
witnesses. You all know me. Ye '11 stick ter thet 
story. Now, boys, go in an' git him. 

[The three men begin to advance upon Fos- 
DiCK very cautiously. He advances his left foot, 
szmngs back his right hand to the position for 
throzving, and rapidly threatens them in turn unth 
the stone, zvhich he nozif let them see, in his right 
hand. Bill zi^alks on slozvly, unseen by the men, 
and zvith his gun leveled at McShane.] 

Bill. Ye could n't never speak the truth, Red: 
They 's another witness. [All look at him, 
McShane's hands instantly shooting above his head 
at fidl stretch. Fosdick drops the stones.] Drop 
thet stick. [McShane drops the stretcher.] Ef I 
was reel pertic'ler, I 'd say two. They kin both 
speak straight. Ye 're list'nin' ter one on 'em right 
now, an' t'other one — [Fosdick stoops to pick up 



Act IV "jj 

his hat, zvith his back to Bill.] Hands up, ev'ry 
last one er ye. \_He szveeps his gun tozvard the 
other men and then hack to McShane. Fosdick's 
hands shoot above his head, and he stands facing the 
cliff and with his back to Bill. The others put 
their hands up more sloidy.'] 

One of the Sailors. Who the — [^He stops 
short, as Bill brings the gun to bear upon him.] 

[In the instant zvhen he is uncovered McShane 
shows a disposition to make a break.] 

Bill {^covering McShane]. Easy, Red. I 'm 
settin' in thisye^ game. I shore Hkes settin' in a 
man's game thisaway ag'in. Now I 'd appreciate 
yer kindness a whole lot, ef ye 'd all kind er stand 
up ag'in thisyer rock. Move. [They all move up 
against the rock.] Backs out. Clost ag'in' the 
rock. [They obey. Bill lets the hand in zvhich he 
holds the gun drop to his side.] It allers did make 
me some nervous ter hold up more 'n three parties 
onless 'n I c'd see their backs. Do n't ye look eroun' 
none w'atever : I 'm li'ble ter shoot, ef ye scare me. 
[Plaintively.] Were w^as you kiotes raised? Ain't 
ye never b'en learned thet it ain't reel perlite ter 
stop ter ast fool questions w'en ye 're gittin' held 
up? I 'm at the talkin' end er this gun. Higher 
thar, Red. Ye might pick some reel pretty posies, 
ef ye was ter stre'ch yerself. 

One of the Sailors. Say, McShane, I thought 



78 The Wilderness 

you was a man-eater. Are five of us goin' ter 
stand here like a row of belayin'-pins w'ile this ol' 
hobo speaks pieces at you ? 

McShane. Thet 's jes' the precise exact thing 
we 're goin' ter do, Bud. There ain't nuthin' else 
ter do w'en a gun-fighter fer shore gits the drop on 
ye. An' ef ye knowed him like I do, ye 'd be more 
civil spoken. 

Bill. Thank ye, Red, fer them few kind words. 
They ain't nuthin' the matter with your manners; 
but ye must 've took notice they 're some free in the 
East. These other polecats do n't know no better. 
We '11 hev ter excuse 'em. They ain't hed your 
bringin'-up. 

McShane. Ye allers was some humersome, 
Bill Herrold. But I find these yere remarks er yours 
consid'ble tiresome. W'at ye goin' ter do with us? 
Ef I 'd on'y er hed my gun. 

Bill. Red, ye shore makes me cry. Ye 've dis- 
app'inted me a whole lot. Ef ye *d on'y er had yer 
gun ter make a play w^ith, yer lovin' friends 'd be 
pickin' posies fer ye right now. But it 's got so in 
this ongawdly eastern kentry thet ye can't kill yer 
friend, — not yer oldest an' best friend — onless he 
kills you fust. I never did like yer face. Red. It 
do n't fit ye. I 've got so soft a-livin' East thet ef I 
sees it sudden, my gun 's li'ble ter go ofif before I c'n 
stiddy my nerves. So ye want ter hit the trail fer 



Act IV 79 



the bad lands, ef I turn ye loose; an' do n't ye never 
stop ontel ye git thar. Oh ! I 'm feelin' reel talka- 
tive. This is right w'ere I live. I 'm enj'yin' 

FosDiCK [plaintively]. I never wished before 
that Ihad been born deaf. It seems to me that the 
few able remarks of Mr. Red 

Bill Iz'ery fiercely]. Here, you Bob Fosdick, 
come here. [Fosdick begins to back toz^^ard Bill.] 
Turn 'roun'. [Fosdick turns.] Quick. [Fosdick 
adz'ances quickly, zvith hands still np.] Lower yer 
hands. Take thisyer gun. [Fosdick takes the 
gun.] You hold 'em. I 'm goin' ter blow up. 

Fosdick [holding on McShane]. I 've got ye 
again, Red. 

[Bill slams his hat to the ground, doubles up 
as if in great pain, emits a fezv choking sounds, 
and bursts into yells of laughter. In a compara- 
tively silent interval, McShane speaks.] 

McShane. Won't somebody put a muzzle on 
thet crazy critter? He 's li'ble ter bite us, an' give 
us all the hyderphoby. 

Bill [suddenly recovering his equanimity, and 
picking up and donning his hat]. I 'm feelin' so 
goodnat'red now, Mack, I 'm erbout ready ter let ye 
go back ter the bad lands, an' tell thisyer joke ter 
yer friends out thetaway. Tell 'em. ye see Bill 
Herrold, er might er seed him, ef ye 'd b'en cross- 



8o The Wilderness 

eyed in the back er yer head, a-holdin' up his pard- 
ner an' best friend, Bob Fosdick. Did n't I tell ye, 
Bob, thet' I was gittin' old an' no-account? You 
a-standin' a-smellin' er thet there rock, an' me so 
plumb interested in thisyer glad meetin' er ol' 
friends I could n't think er nuthin' but thet I was 
a-holdin' up the hull, entire outfit. Bob, ye won't 
hev no hard f eelin's ? 

Fosdick [not taking his eyes from Mc- 
Shane]'. Bill, where 's Mr. Walton? I thought 
he was only stunned. Has n't he come to yet? 

Bill. I shore fergot him, too. [He goes 
hastily to Herbert, and makes a hurried exami- 
nation.] No. He 's hurted bad, Bob. My Gawd! 
I 've seen too many men — [Rising.] Here, turn 
them kiotes loose. 

Fosdick. Git, Red. Hands down. [McShane 
and the other sailors lower their hands, and move 
slozvly toward the beach.] I begin to remember 
something about you; and I should not lose any 
sleep, if I had to kill you. Back to your vessel, and 
do n't show your face ashore again. Bill and I will 
both go heeled. [Indicating one of the sailors.] 
Leave that young hero here. Git. 

[McShane and tzvo of the men disappear in 
the direction of the beach. One of the sailors re- 
mains. Fosdick returns the gun to Bill. Fosdick 
and Bill stoop over Herbert.] 



Act IV 8 1 



FosDicK [to the sailor]. You wait. Good 
God! Bill, this man is in a bad way. See this — 
IRising and turning to the sailor.] Listen; listen 
hard. Do n't start until you understand. Then 
run as hard as you can run. Find Miss Wilber — 
Wilber at the hotel. Tell her three things. One: 
Mr. Walton is up here with a sprained ankle, — 
very badly sprained. Two : She must send a 
wagon — wagon (three) with a doctor — doctor as 
quick as possible. If she is not there, tell the hotel 
clerk a man is dying here from a blow on the head, 
and a doctor must be rushed. Do you understand ? 

The Sailor. Yes, sir. Sprained ankle — 
Wilber — wagon — doctor — quick — clerk. 

FosDicK. Good. Now run — like hell. [The 
sailor runs toward the hotel.] We can do nothing 
for him, Bill : this is beyond us. Bring some water. 

[Bill goes over the bank. Fosdick kneels over 
Herbert^ and loosens his collar. Bill returns zvith 
water in his hat, which he lays by Herbert. Bill 
sits on the ground, and lifts Herbert^s head to his 
knee. After bathing Herbert's brozv and throat, 
Fosdick rises. While Bill speaks, Fosdick paces 
to and fro, stooping now and then over Herbert to 
bathe his brozv or to feel his pulse.] 

Bill. Not wishin' ter persume none w'atever, 
Bob, but bein' nat'ly some interested inter ye, I 'd 



82 Tpie Wilderness 

take it mighty kind ef ye was ter see fit, w'en ye 're 
good an' read}^, ter tell me ez much ez ye think I 'd 
ought ter know erbout this yere. [Takes off his 
coat, folds it, and puts it under Herbert's 
head.] 

FosDicK. Not now : I can't talk now. Later 
I '11 tell you all about it. 

[A silent interval.] 

Bill [rising]. Bob, I wants ter tell ye w'at I 
seen. I never went back on my pardner yit, an' I 
shore ain't goin' back on you. I was standin' over 
yander a piece : I did n't come reel nigh tel thisyer 
Red starts ter make his play. I see ye start ter go 
erway. Then I see thisyer Mr. Walton kind er 
move on ye. Then he went down. I could n't see 
ez ye hit him none. I do n't know. He jumped 
right up, an' went fer ye ag'in; an' then I thought 
I see ye hit him. Leastways he fell, an' laid right 
w'ere he is now. I do n't rightly know : I ain't 
cert'in shore. The bushes bothered me. 

FosDiCK. Thank you, Bill. That 's near enough 
for the present. [A pause.] Do n't ask me to tell 
you now. Later, I promise. 

Bill. I did n't ast no questions, an' I do n't want 
no promises. 

FosDiCK. I know it, pardner, I know it for sure. 
[A pause.] I 've a good deal on my mind now, 



^ Act IV 83 

Bill. Where 's that wagon? Go down to the turn 
in the trail, and see if they 're not coming. 

[Bill disappears toivard the hotel, and returns 
in a few seconds.'] 

Bill. They 're comin' ! They 're fight here. 
They '11 hev ter leave the wagon down here a piece. 

[Beatrix runs in.] - ^ 

Beatrix. Where is he? Herbert. \_Going to 
him.] What 's this? [She stoops over him.] 
They said it was a sprained ankle. [Kneeling over 
him.] God in Heaven! He is not dead? 

[The doctor, the sailor, and the driver come in. 
FosDiCK speaks to the doctor aside. The doctor 
kneels, and examines Herbert's head, Beatrix 
kneeling by him, zmth her hands clasped. The 
doctor speaks to her. They rise. Under the doc- 
tor s direction, and zvith his help, the other men, ex- 
cept FosDicK, bear Herbert aivay. Beatrix is 
about to follow.] 

FosDicK. Betty. 

Beatrix. No. No. I must go with him. 

FosDiCK. Give me a minute — one minute. He 
spoke as if he — as if you had some claim on him. 
[A brief interval.] You knew him in the West? 

Beatrix. Yes. 

FosDicK. You knew him well? 

Beatrix. Yes. 



84 The Wilderness 

FosDicK. And long? 

Beatrix. And long. No more. He may be 
dying now. They say there was a struggle. I pray 
God that if you have killed him, I may have 
strength to forget you. Go. Go. 



END OF ACT IV 



Act V 85 



ACT V 

[The scene is that of Act IV. Beatrix and 
Bill are seated as Beatrix and Fosdick were 
seated in that act. Her attitude expresses the relaxa- 
tion of utter fatigue.] 

Beatrix. No one but you in all the world will 
ever know about all this. Do you suppose, Bill 
dear, our souls must go under the harrow before 
we can understand a little, — understand anything? 
[After a pause.] Why did he go away without a 
word? Did he fear that he had killed Herbert? 
But no ; he is not a coward. 

Bill. He shore ain't. 

Beatrix. Thtn, Bill, how could he go, if he 
trusted me? [After a pause.] I was so strong, 
so confident, so young. Strong I shall be again 
perhaps, but never again confident or very young. 
How long is it since I left the island? 

Bill [testily]. W'y do ye pester me with yer 
fool questions? [Very gently.] It 's nigh onter 
two months, Betty Gal. 

Beatrix. Nigh onter two months. Bill? No: 
I think it 's nigh onter ten years. And five years 
ago Herbert was hurt. But he began to get better 



86 The Wilderness 

six days ago. That I can understand ; for then my 
big brother came back to me, — I hope to stay. 
Sometimes now it seems that we must be back in 
the okl days : we live them over and over together, 
as much as the nurse will let us. I almost think I 
am happy then; then I can forget. [After a 
pause] And then sometimes, out here with you, 
I know that if I were not so strong, or if I were 
stronger, — I do n't know which, I should sure- 
ly die. It does not really matter now whether I 
live or die. It does n't seem to me to be of the least 
importance. And all the time I know how silly it is 
to feel like that, because there are Herbert, and 
you, and the boys. 

Bill; Betty, ye '11 hev me plumb locoed,^ — you 
an' yer dyin' : Ain't ye ez good a man ez ever ye 
was ? Ye ain't lost no limbs, — not ez I 've tuk 
notice on. Ye c'n pick up a blaze ez fur ez ever 
ye could; an' I do n't doubt but w'at, ef ye tuk the 
notion, ye c'd han'le both the kids ez easy ez ever ye 
could. Ye want ter git up on yer hind laigs an' 
make a bluff, ef ye can't do no better. I never see 
ye before w'en ye could n't git no fire, even ef the 
woods was drippin' from a three days' rain. [After 
a pause.] Termorrer you, an' me, an' the kids 
goes ter a pawnd I 've heard tell erbout a piece up 
kentry here. She 's called the Wi'ches' Mirror, er 
some sich a fool name. She 's built outer reel sweet 



^ Act V 87 

water thet a w'ite man c'n drink. An' she 's plumb 
full er islants, — islets, ez I onct heard a towerist 
lady call 'em. — not properly knowin'- w'ether she 
was makin' oration erbout the beauties er natur' er 
the mysterious mysteries of a lady's t'ilet, — ain't 
thet it? WqW now, they hev shallops [Thet 's w'at 
the towerist lady called them little old scows they 
hed on Stinkin' Water Pawnd.] — they hev these 
yere shallops on this lake I 'm tellin' ye erbout ; an' 
they look most oncommon like birch canoes, made 
outer reel birch bark : ain't it wonderful ? An' on 
still nights, w'en the moon is erbout three quarters 
full, ye c'n paddle eroun' this lake er mine in them 
shallops, an' listen ter the trouts, w'ich at them 
times they climbs the trees, an' sings most oncom- 
mon sweet. An' the shores er thisyer pawnd is 
plumb picturesque an' pleasin', bein' mostly secon' 
growth hard wood. An' they air full er playful 
critters, w'ich they come out an' play in the moon- 
light w'en the trouts is singin', — jack rabbits, an' 
field mice, an' marmots, an' porkerpines, an' pole- 
cats. 

Beatrix. O Bill, that 's like old times too. The 
fairy tales you used to tell ! The most wonderful 
fairy tales that any little girl ever heard, — all about 
the trees, and the critters, and the birds, and the 
fish. Did n't you ever use to sprain that marvellous 
imagination of yours? 



88 The Wilderness 

Bill. Not ez I 've noticed. I ain't never hed no 
cramps in it. 

Beatrix. Yes : I '11 go with you and the boys to- 
morrow. [After a pause.] Has any woman ever 
told you what a darling you are? 

Bill. Not ef I hed time ter draw fust. No: I 
ain't b'en nobody's darlin', not fer quite a spell back. 

Beatrix. [After a pause]. You know Herbert 
can't remember how he was hurt, and nobody else 
will tell me. Tell me, Bill. 

Bill. W'y, it wa' n't nuthin'. He was jes' 
hurted, like I allers tol' ye. 

Beatrix. But there was a struggle. 

Bill. Not ter say w'at ye 'd call struggle. They 
was a round up of a few parties thet hed n't met up 
tergether fer quite some time. 

Beatrix. What happened ? 

Bill. Well, some on 'em — Now, looker here, 
you Betty Gal, I do n't doubt but w'at ye '11 pull the 
gizzard Outer me, ef ye keep on. You leave my in- 
nards be. I need 'em. 

Beatrix [zmth a zvan sniile]. Did you ever go 
to a pink tea ? I think you might work quite an ex- 
traordinary change in the prevailing tint. [After 
a pause.] You think I did right, do n't you? 

Bill. Ye could n't hev done no diff'rent. 

Beatrix. If I had not deceived him — But I 
could n't go back on my word ? 



Act V 89 

Bill. No. 

Beatrix. Not even my word to myself. 

Bill. No more 'n yer dad could. 

Beatrix. That 's so, Bill, — whatever happened. 
But I do n't understand everything ; and I 'm going 
to understand. [Sitting up,] It ain't like me, is 
it, to leave a trail that I 've started to follow to 
the end? 

Bill. Ye ain't never done it yit, — no more 'n 
yer dad did. 

Beatrix. That 's it, — no more than my dad did. 

Bill. W'y the old man 'd be plumb ershamed 
er ye, — layin' here an' whimp'rin' like a kiote w'en 
the dawgs sets their teeth inter it, 'stid er holdin' 
yer yap, an' humpin' yer ba'ck, an' fightin' like a 
wounded timber wolf. Hev ye clean give up? 
Ain't ye no account w'atever? [Risings and icitli- 
drazving his support from her soniczvhat roughly.'] 
I tells ye plain, I 'm done with thisyer baby talk er 
yours. Was ye cal'atin' a man growed 'd want ter 
spend the rest er his wuthless days a-list'nin' ter you 
bawlin' like a baby grizzly tuk erway from his ma ? 

Beatrix. You 're cruel, to talk — [After a pause 
she rises to her feet, and speaks standing, with her 
head throiim hack and her hands clenched at her 
sides.] No: you 're dead right. Was I allowin' I 
was beat? I must have forgotten that I was my 
father's daughter. Wait: let me think. [A pause.] 



90 The Wilderness 

You must help me, Bill. He wrote to me. [Tak- 
ing a letter from the bosom of her dress.'] I could 
not answer. I thought he had killed Herbert. 
Even now you can not tell me that if Herbert had 
died — And later what could I say? He only 
asked that I should see him. Perhaps when all 
this — No : I must do something now. What shall 
I do, Bill? 

Bill. Do? I know w'at I 'd do. He lef ye: 
thet 'd be ernough for me. Thet 's how I feel ; but 
I do n't know ez thet 's the way I think. I 've 
knowed quite some skunks, Betty Gal; an' I 've 
knowed a few parties thet was square an' game. 
Thet 's him. He did n't never kill no party he 
did n't hev no right ter kill. Jes' ye set dow^n onct, 
an' talk it over slow an' easy like with him. You 
won't tell him no lies; ner he won't tell you none. 
I seen his eye. 

Beatrix. If he had not lost his faith! He did 
not trust me. 

Bill. An' ain't you b'en mistrustin' him? I 
think likely ef I 'd er b'en him, my trust inter ye 
would hev b'en some spraint,-— leastways fer a 
spell. An' w'at did ye say ter him the last thing? 

Beatrix. I hardly know: I was thinking only 
of Herbert. 

Bill. W'ich most likely he seen ye was n't 



Act V 91 

thinkin' er nuthin' on'y Herbert. Was ye figgerin' 
thet was li'ble ter make him feel reel j'yful? I do n't 
doubt but w'at his wits was millin' like a bunch er 
crazy steers. All Bob Fosdick wants is a square 
deal. I 'm backin' his game. The air from the 
Pacific, says he, 'd be reel becomin' ter me. 

Beatrix. Perhaps you are right. Oh! I think 
you are. But love without faith, — that can never 
be. 

Bill. Who 's this a-lopin' up this way? 

Beatrix [thrusting the letter into the bosom of 
her dress]. Bill, Bill, it 's Robert. What shall I 
do? 

Bill. Ye 're the docter, Betty Gal; an' most 
prob'ly this is the chanst ye 've b'en prayin' fer. 
[Turns to go.] 

Beatrix [laying her hand on Bill's arm]. 
Do n't go. Bill : do n't go yet. 

[She takes tzuo or three heaving breaths; and 
then stands very upright, with one hand on Bill's 
arm, the other clenched at her side. Fosdick 
conies in.] 

Fosdick. Betty! [In a whisper.] Betty! 

Beatrix [speaking firmly]. Why have you 
come back? 

Fosdick. I had to see this spot again. I could 
not' — But you, why are you here? I knew from 



92 The Wilderness 

the papers that Walton's sister had come, and his 
two younger brothers, — that he would recover. 
But you ? 

Beatrix. I could not leave him. 

FosDicK. You love him? 

Beatrix. Yes. 

FosDicK. You have loved him long? 

Beatrix. Yes. 

FosDicK. I do not see that more can be said. 

[FosDicK turns to go. Beatrix takes her hand 
from Bill's ann, and advances a step toward Fos-^ 
DICK. Bill walks off.] 

Beatrix. Robert. 

[FosDiCK stops and turns toward her. They 
stand gating into one another's eyes. Fosdick 
advances slozvly until he stands four or fiz^e feet 
from her.] 

FosDicK. I thought my faith was dead. How 
should it not be ? But you are the same Betty. We 
said, "Whatever happens." 

Beatrix. Whatever happens. 

Fosdick. You loved me? 

Beatrix. Yes. 

Fosdick. I do not 

[She extends her arm straight and stiff toward 
him] the fingers of her hand together, the palm 
down. As she speaks, she sivings this arm and her 
body azi'ay from him until she faces to the front. 



Act V 93 

Holding her arm so, she advances three paces, zvhile 
speaking, and stands in mid-step. She drops her 
arm, and holds both arms at her sides, strained a 
little back, uith the hands clenched: Her brow be- 
comes puckered. Her chin is thrust forward, her 
head throzvn back, her eyes partly closed. She is 
peering dozmi a dim forest trail.] 

Beatrix. Wait. I have set my feet upon the 
trail again. Let me pick up the blazes. [After a 
pause.] You said a flame. Do you remember? 

FosDicK. The flame that does not consume. 

Beatrix. But there is a fire that does con- 
sume, — destroy, — the smoldering fire of doubt. 

FosDiCK. Sometimes, I think, it strengthens, — 
after it has passed. 

Beatrix. Perfect love, I thought you had. It 
seemed so to me. I could not take less. Yet per- 
fect love means perfect faith. You went away 
from me. 

FosDicK. You told me to go. 

Beatrix. I do n't remember. 

FosDicK. And when you told me to go, and 
when I saw how you loved him 

Beatrix. You would have been more than 
human, if you had not doubted? It may be so. I 
thought our love divine. Perhaps it was only 
human. Human love and human faith, — these are 
enough, if they are perfect. I could not take less. 



94 The Wilderness 

FosDicK. Let me see your eyes. [She turns to 
him.'] The same clear pool. Nothing false, I 
said, nothing unworthy 

Beatrix. Robert, do you think I could have 
found the trail again, if I had really left it? 

FosDiCK. The trail? 

Beatrix. I only lay down to rest. I was very 
tired. But now I am strong again. 

FosDiCK. You were never weak. 

Beatrix. For a time I was. The trail to your 
heart. 

FosDicK. Betty, how can I look into your 
eyes — Whatever happens. And then my faith 
failed. But now I know 

Jack [calling zinthoitf]. Sis, O Sis. [He 
comes in, ziith Dick.] Where 's Bill? As sure as 
my name 's — Oh ! Excuse me. 

FosDicK, Who are these boys? Walton's two 
brothers are here. 

Beatrix. They are his brothers. 

FosDicK. And 

Beatrix. And my brothers, too. 

FosDicK [turning to go]. God forgive me. 

[The boys go off.] 

Beatrix. Robert. Bob. 

FosDiCK [turning to her]. It is not possible 
that you forgive me ? 

Beatrix. I onlv love vou. 



Act V 95 

-' [She goes to hint, and he takes her in his anus.] 

FosDiCK. My faith was coming back. 

Beatrix. It had come back. 

FosDicK [looking into her eyes]. The pool is 
as clear as ever. 

Bill [eoming in]. Did I hear ye callin', Betty 
Gal? Here, you Bob! Fosdick! 

Beatrix. Bill, Bill, I have followed the trail to 
the very end. 

[She goes to Bill, throws her arms about his 
neck, and buries her face on his shoulder. Sup- 
porting her with his left arm, he reaches his right 
hand to Fosdick, who grasps it.] 



THE END 



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